Homestead
by G12G4
Summary: The last in the Mina Moore Mystery series. Mina (M) and Bond are called in to investigate famous Scotsman Andrew Carnegie's possible involvement on the assassination attempt on his business partner Henry Clay Frick following the disastrous events of the Homestead Steel Mill strike. The investigation reveals a familiar face from Mina's past in a deadly cat and mouse game.
1. Prologue

_July 6, 1892_

 _Homestead, PA_

A cannon boomed from the northern shore. The man, called Thomas Ewing, or sometimes Wyoming on account of his pronounced drawl and that Wyoming was where he hailed from, spun where he stood on the shifting deck of the covered barge. He turned to see a thin line of wispy smoke trailing from the muzzle of the cannon into the ponderous clouds of soot that hung heavy over the city. On the steep bank men struggled to prepare another shot, sliding slightly from the dew moistened clay - the river was living up to the name the Iroquois had given it: the river of steep and sliding banks, the Monongahela. It was a name few of the men on the barges knew, let alone could pronounce, nor did they care to learn it.

Ewing took aim at the men loading the cannon, measuring the shot in his mind. He lowered the gun. It was too far away for this cheap pistol. He wished he had his old revolver, a well balance piece that had been designed and forged specifically for his use, not this Frankenstein's monster of interchangeable parts. But that piece was long gone, buried with his brother in the chalky soil of what had once been home. That place of idyll that could never again be returned to, that had been laid to waste one warm day in June - but then, hadn't it always just been a beautiful fantasy? He ran a hand through his chestnut hair, returning it from disorder to its usual, side-swept place on his high, broad brow which rose at the sides, giving the front of his hair a slightly rounded appearance. He turned his gaze to the East.

A red band was growing upon the horizon between the black of the land and the black of the sky, announcing the coming of the dawn. Yet it brought no sense of reprieve with it, instead it was as though the hellmouth were opening to swallow them up. The celestial announcement that they had been penned on this floating death trap for hours, since two in the morning, neither able to make landfall nor to leave as the people of Homestead, these Homesteaders, laid siege to the pair of barges. Covered barges, no better than floating metal boxes, inside of which three hundred Pinkerton Detectives, most of whom had been in the employ of the agency for less than twenty-four hours, were huddled.

Floating by, set in dark relief by the rising sun, skiffs piloted by armed Homesteaders took aim at those on the barge. Any Pinkerton agent foolish enough to leave the safety of the metal covering was quickly chased back inside by shots from both the shore and the river.

Smoke poured from the factory chimneys that dotted the horizon. The horizon was much closer than he was accustomed to. The mountains embracing the city made it difficult to see even a mile out. The Pittsburghers were a hardy people, when the flat land ran out, they built on the sides of the mountain. Homestead had been thus carved into the mountainside that ran along the southern bank of the river, east of the city of Pittsburgh. Even now, with all the lamps lit, the large hill upon which the Homesteaders had built loomed over them, reflected on the river, giving it the appearance of the stars come down around them. Except for by the steelworks where torches, now hidden with their men behind a bulwark of scrap steel, gave the building an eerie orange glow.

The cannon fired another shot passing just over the nose of the barge that bobbed helplessly on the great muddy river. Inside the barge, men threw themselves against the deck, hunkering against the metal walls. Some openly wept under bunks and tables while others made pleas to their God, most had surrendered rifles for life vests as bullets rained from the south and cannon fire from the north. One attempted to jump from the barge into the filthy river, but Tom caught him by the collar and hauled him back. Ewing had never seen a more disgusting loss of sense. Diving into the water was madness.

At nearly eight o' clock, the barge swung toward the shore once again. Orders were given to disembark. Ewing rounded on the attempted escapee and grabbed his pistol. Spinning the cylinder he saw it was fully loaded, the muzzle clean and cool. The coward who had left it had not even attempted to fire back upon the men on the shore. He turned toward the south shore, toward the steelworks, hit both guns against his outer thighs to close the cylinders, and took aim through one of the holes hastily cut into the side of the barge. The shining silver buttons of his uniform blouse, each embossed with the letter P, glinted orange with the reflected fire, the same fire that shone in his protuberant blue eyes.

* * *

It had been billed as an easy job, one that the Pinkertons had experience with. Two weeks was deemed more than sufficient time to prepare. They were to come by barge in the middle of the night and take the steelworks, securing it for the non-Union workers. Just a quick job. He had needed the money. Ewing hadn't held a stable position since his enlistment with the 7th Cavalry had expired last year. He was young enough to re-enlist, only in his mid-thirties, but what he had seen, what he had had to do in Pine Ridge was beyond his tolerance. Even now he could see that little face with its dark eyes, peeking out of the snow, almost completely buried, held forever frozen in his dead mother's arms. The end of the Sioux war, they had hailed it. And it was the end. He was done fighting other men's wars. But war was not done with him, it seemed. He had known that the moment he heard that low whistle blow only minutes after they passed under the bridge with its strange crisscrossing arches.

He had felt the bridge's weird eyes upon him, as though it were watching them. They had not even reached the town before the first shots were fired by a steam launch. And then the whistle sounded, to be answered by another on shore. And he knew they would be waiting to greet the Pinkertons at the landing. The captains had known it as well for they began distributing firearms and billy clubs among the nervous men on the barges.

"We, the workers in these mills, are peaceably inclined," the tall, handsome, black mustachioed man who appeared to be the leader of the mob had shouted from the shore. "Peaceably inclined," he had claimed, after the crowd had already fired shots at them. "Peaceably inclined," after seeing even the oldest woman among them wielding a billy club and shouting threats of violence against them. "Peaceably inclined," as there they had stood, hundreds of them, on the shore, filling the landing: men, women, and even children brandishing any type of armament they could get their hands on and shouting threats of bloodshed and death upon the Pinkertons. The very sight caused a number of his comrades to lose their nerve. Whispers that perhaps they should go back rippled through the barrack barge, _Iron Mountain_. In minutes that choice would be lost to them.

Captain Heinde, the leader of the expedition, stepped out onto the deck and, with the arrogance of one who was used to getting his way, demanded that the Homesteaders withdraw or the Pinkertons would mow them down. From within the huddled masses of the barge, Ewing knew this was an empty threat. Most of the men had neither the heart nor the stomach for violence and already grumblings were beginning that this was not the job they had signed up for, to fight Frick's war for him.

There was shouting, a commotion at the shore. Ewing had pushed toward the open area of the platform, arriving just in time to see Captain Heinde knocked from his feet by a massive Hungarian. A gunshot rang out followed rapidly by another. Suddenly, the world exploded in a volley of gunfire. Ewing took aim at the leader of the mob, but just as he pulled the trigger, one of those men who had stood on deck dove for the safety of the covering, knocking Ewing's arm and causing the shot to miss. The man with the black mustache cradled his hand, retreating from the shoreline to the higher ground of the millworks.

A spurt of blood flew from Captain Heinde's leg, he fell to the deck in the company of a dozen other detectives. Packed in as they were in the barges, it was no more difficult than shooting hogs in a pen for the Homesteaders. Many of the Pinkertons had not even bothered to try to fight, rather they hid themselves behind any furniture they could find. Within ten minutes the shooting ceased and both sides regrouped while the tugboat that was their only means of escape chugged away with its cargo of wounded and dead. They would be forced to wait it out in the hopes that the Pennsylvania Militia would come to their aid. By six that morning, as the first rays of sunlight glowed from behind the mountains, reinforcements had come, but not to the side of the men on the barges. Ewing watched, a sinking within his breast, as the fiery salamander of torches snaked its way through the fog rising up from the hillside. The cannon boomed.

The Homesteaders had already proven they were beyond mercy, beyond reason. The Pinkertons had lost men, deaths the Homesteaders had cheered. The captains assured their men that the Pennsylvania Militia would soon come to rescue them. That Frick had planned for such an event, if it were to occur, and vowed support from the State were it needed.

That Frick had _planned_ for such an event _if_ it were to occur. Had Tom heard those words before the barge had disembarked, he never would have set foot onto it. The crates loaded with guns, the billy clubs, Frick, whoever he was, had anticipated this very thing would happen. He had expected it. He cared nothing for what might become of the three hundred souls on the barge. Nothing for the men who had bled and died on the barge deck. He had knowingly sent them into danger without even the decency to give them a choice whether they wanted to go.

* * *

Ewing glanced at his wristwatch. It was now minutes until eight. Six hours. Still, the tug had not returned. Still, there was no sign of the promised militia.

"Frick." Ewing pronounced the name and spat on the deck.

A lauded sharpshooter, Tom watched the steelworks from a hole roughly cut into the side of the barge, pistol cocked, waiting. From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of movement from the pumphouse. He pulled the trigger. Time slowed for a moment as the dot of red on the workman's forehead grew. His eyes were frozen wide open, a cry escaped his gaping mouth as he fell backward, plummeting sixty feet from the pumphouse into the ditch below. Though he could neither feel nor hear it, Ewing winced from the percussion of the workman's landing. He could sense, within him, the shattering of the workman's bones. Shouts of rage echoed from the shore.

A cannonball ripped through the barge, just narrowly missing Ewing, he ducked down into a kneeling position. Another cannonball flew by, just narrowly overshooting the barge. The missile exploded upon the shore. A young man was bleeding from his head on the shore while another, who looked as though he could have been his brother, stared in shock as the life left the other's eyes.

Ewing turned and reloaded his guns, returning to his post just in time to see the head of one of the workers split from the lip, the top half disappearing. A loaf of bread rolled from the dead man's hand.

"He was unarmed!" Ewing shouted at the old sharpshooter who smiled with satisfaction at his kill.

"What do you care? He was just a hunky. I had a shot and I took it."

Ewing spat. Holstering his spare pistol he continued to watch. The sounds of battle died down again. Still came the intermittent retort; here from the shore, there from the barge. The cannon fire had ceased. Perhaps they had run out of shot, he thought, indifferently, no longer able to muster from within himself the ability to care. It was just one more battle in an endless stream of wars.

He slid down with his back against the north-facing barge wall, hands hanging loosely from his knees, the pistol dangling from his fingers. Killing was one of the few skills he possessed and he was so weary of it. He rubbed his face against the rolled sleeve on his bicep. He was vaguely surprised to see a streak of oily filth where his forehead had been. It was only now he realized his jaw was sore - he had not even been aware he had been clenching it. Ewing massaged the joint of that squared bone. Too squared. Too broad. Too short. It told tales on him that he wished to forget. He leaned his head back against the wall, and there, lulled by the sound of screams and gunfire, he fell asleep.

He awoke some time later to great shouts of acclamation and joy. Getting to his feet he grabbed one of the other men by the shoulder.

"What's going on?" he drawled, still not fully awake. The drawl had a bit of a hard catch, not natural of Wyoming, what had once been normal now the result of an unguarded moment.

"It's the tugboat! He's come back for us!" the other man cried, almost weeping with joy.

Tom Ewing pushed through the cheering crowd. There, coming toward the barges, American Flag streaming in the wind, was the _Little Bill_.

As the tugboat approached a sudden volley of shots exploded from the shore, peppering the _Little Bill_. The few windows on the boat that had not broken in the original volleys were now shattered, forcing the pilot from the wheel. A shot just narrowly missed the captain. A crewman went down, bleeding profusely from the groin. The tugboat began to drift downstream to the horror of the men in the barges. Any hope that had sprung up in them was now dashed. They looked as though men facing the ferryman's approach, for surely this must be the river Styx. And how many of them, in that terrible moment, might have willingly joined Charon, if only that he promised escape from the interminable waiting.

A cheer of victory rose from those on shore as the tugboat floated away.

Ewing shook his head, turning back toward cover when he heard a terrible groan from the men at the barge opening followed by hysterical jabbering. Ewing spun to see, there, on the shore, the Homesteaders were loading a raft with lumber. A man poured oil on the load and then, grinning, lit a match. The lumber burst into flame as the raft was shoved out toward the barges. They meant to set the barges on fire!

Men rushed toward the deck, clearly intent on jumping when one of the Pinkerton captains brandished a gun and threatened to shoot anyone who tried. Men wept as their doom slowly drifted toward them. Ewing held his breath, waiting. He would swim if he had to, but he was not ready to surrender yet.

As though an act of mercy from God Himself, the flaming raft burned itself out before reaching the barges. But the relief of the Pinkertons was short lived. The sharpshooters on their rafts remained at a distance, rifles at the ready, waiting. Perhaps they knew something the Pinkertons did not. Then a scream rose from one of the cut out barge windows and Ewing saw it. A second fireball barreled toward them in the form of a burning railroad flatcar loaded with barrels of oil. Men screamed, running over each other to try to get as far from the end of the barge where the flatcar would collide as they could, rocking the barge perilously, an unsettled sensation that only added to their panic. Water sloshed over the tilting edge of the barge, splashing onto the men who were beyond caring about such matters. Ewing knew better than to attempt to fight his way into the crush. In his mind he could see the flatcar tearing through the thin metal flesh of the barge. To jump would be certain death, to stay, the same. His only hope was that he might be thrown far enough by the impact that he could evade the men on their rafts. He braced for the impact, his eyes never wavering from his fiery death. And then, just as it hit the water's edge, it stopped. The flatcar sat, burning, just yards away from where the barges floated. Curses rang out from the Homestead side while a number of the Pinkertons, on bended knees with tears flowing from their eyes, gave thanks to God for this second miraculous act of deliverance.

The Homesteaders were becoming more desperate to do away with the trapped detectives. After a few paltry attempts to dynamite the barges failed, Ewing watched as they began dumping barrels of oil into the water. The dark rainbow slick drifted toward the barges, lapping at their edges. With dawning horror, Ewing realized what the Homesteaders were planning.

They were going to set the river on fire.


	2. Chapter 1

_Two miles out of Greystoke, Cumberland, England_

 _August 8, 1892_

I stared at her just sleeping there in her crib, resisting the urge to run my fingers through her dark curls for fear of waking her. Black, like her father. Everything of her was her father, excepting her nose - that, I was quite certain, was mine. Her plump lips were pale pink, moving ever so slightly with her breath. Her tiny chest moved up and down. She was so much more beautiful than either of us. Her long black eyelashes fluttered slightly. It had been a month since last I had seen her. I could not be certain whether I wished for her to continue to sleep, or awaken that I might hear her tender little voice call for "Momma," her arms reaching that I might sweep her up and hold her tightly to me as I had so often ached to do while I was away. But she did not stir.

A pair of warm arms wrapped themselves around me.

"Was it him?" a long yearned for voice whispered into my ear. I savored the feeling of his hot breath on my cheek, his chin resting on my shoulder.

"Yes."

"So he is the new investor we have been hearing about. The one who has the high society of Austria all a-titter."

I could not help but recall the moment he entered grand Viennese ballroom. I had been assigned to uncover the identity to a new investor in the Viennese market. He was said to be fabulously wealthy, though the sources of his wealth were dubious at best. But enough money can cause questions to seem rather unimportant in the grand scheme of things to those who are in need of it. We had heard rumors of weapons sales and bank heists, counterfeiting and art thefts, opium and precious gems. A number of suspicious deaths of well known black market dealers had left a void to be filled and we had reason to believe this investor had poured himself into it. Everything so precise, so meticulously planned, it was less like watching the beginnings of a criminal empire and more like watching dominoes fall, one after another, tick tick tick. Even before I saw him, I had suspected, both Roger and I had suspected.

Despite it being a costume ball, he had come without. Rather he was clothed in a black tuxedo, his black curls (which I was accustomed to seeing loose) slicked back. Footmen bowed low as he entered the room. Men and women surrounded him, pleading for his attention, his favor; but he scarcely gave a nod of acknowledgement to them individually as they fell in bows and curtsies about him, simply glorying in their presence as he strolled through them. Strikingly tall, his frame was still spare, though he had gained some flesh which worked in his favor as it removed his slightly malnourished appearance and gave a brightness to his countenance. Though none might call that face handsome, it was no longer quite so ugly. I had shrunk behind the column at his arrival, a pale blue bird of paradise beaked mask held securely in place over my eyes and nose as I watched, hoping he would take no notice of me as he strode onto the dance floor where women lined up that he might dance with them.

"Roger, you would not have believed how they fawned upon him. It was less like he was a guest and more that he conducted them in a sycophantic choir."

"Did he know you were there?"

"Yes. I daresay the entire display was put on for my benefit." The frustration was evident in my voice.

As the evening had progressed, I watched him lead a number of women across the dance floor, each he regarded with a pleasant expression that belied his complete indifference as they prattled on. In all that time he did not so much as glance in my direction. For a few blessed hours I actually believed he did not recognize me, for I had changed much in the year I was gone from the field. I was no longer quite the skinny girl I had been; Emily had granted me a more womanly shape and form. Still a far cry from being handsome, but at least within hearing distance of it. A fat, balding man I recognized as the local Burger bustled up to him with a glass of champagne and proposed a toast. It was at this moment that Du Beauchene fixed me with his oily smile and raised the glass in my direction. "To our friendship." he declared in his perfect Austrian dialect. To hear those words echoed all around me by others who had no comprehension to their meaning - he had planned this moment to the smallest detail. I had run from the hall to the music of his laughter echoing through the ballroom.

Roger tightened his embrace.

I turned, laying my head against his chest that he would not see the tears welling up in my eyes, "This needs to end."

"All we can do is trust Granger's plan."

"I am tired of running away from him."

"I know. But if we let you work the case, he gets what he wants," he said.

"So we must allow him to grow wealthier and more powerful, that even the King might bow to him?"

"They will catch him."

"But not as fast as I would. If he wants me to chase him then perhaps we should give him what he wants. It is all for my sake anyway."

"You know I cannot allow that. I cannot allow him to ensnare you in his malevolent plans. He is a man of obsessions and once he knows he has secured yours, I fear the things he might do to you. The things he might persuade you to do. I fear he might cause you to lose yourself to him."

"Do you think me so weak?"

"No. You are the strongest woman I have ever known. But he has been formulating a plan for years the center of which revolves around his conquest of you. You know what he is capable of. The slow turn of the screw he executes almost imperceptibly until it is impossible to know which direction is that of his design and which, your own. You saw his notes after the Kingdom of Munster fell. He may have capitalized on our presence, but he had been playing his own game for years. He may have been a leashed cur, but he had been pulling Veena towards his own ends for over a decade without her ever knowing. We cannot risk you becoming a part of his game. You must have faith in Russell and Heinrich to manage The Remnant."

In the last year of our marriage it seemed I had been away almost as much as I had been home, if not more so. Chasing shadows that always appeared as one thing only to reform themselves as DuBeauchene on my approach. It was no way to begin a marriage. The head of the Secret Service, Mr. Benjamin Granger, was nothing if not sympathetic, unfortunately sympathy was all he was able to muster. The Remnant had not ceased their activity and between Russell Shaw and I, we would be in quite over our heads if not for the assistance of Heinrich Menning who was more than happy to expose those former members of the Kingdom of Munster who had less piety than perfidy on their minds.

"It is not all on your shoulders."

I clutched Roger tighter, burying my face in his lapel. These things I knew. He was repeating my own words back to me. Words I had said numerous times to Granger, to him, to myself though they did little to assuage my frustration and fears.

"Roger, he knows where we live, he knows who I am, who you are. I keep seeing him in my dreams coming in through the window and taking Millie from me... taking you."

"He won't do that."

"How can you be so sure?"

"He wants to possess your mind, for, while your body is beyond his grasp, that part of you he still might claim. If he took Millie he would risk drawing us even closer for we should not rest until she had been recovered. And if he murdered me, then he could never have it, for you would never be able to see him without thinking of me."

There was a slight murmur from the crib. We both turned to look, but Millie was still sound asleep.

"She must have heard your voice through her dreaming. She misses you terribly when you are gone."

"It kills me to leave her. Granger says it will not be much longer. But he has been saying so for years now."

"You are the best he has. I don't blame him for being unwilling to lose his second in command to the northern highlands just yet. Just as he cannot blame me for wanting to keep you all to myself." He kissed the top of my head, then my brow. He tilted his frame that he might meet my eyes with his own, large and dark, imploring me. "Stay with me tonight," he said.

"The maids already wonder why we bother to have a second bedroom."

"Let them wonder. I want you with me tonight. I have lived too long without my heart, and now that it is in my grasp I cannot bear to be apart from it a moment longer."

"I don't know. This trip has left me distracted. I doubt I should be much in the way of company."

"Poor wand'ring one," Roger sang, as though a lullaby, with little regard for the actual notes. "if such poor love as mine can help thee find true piece of mind, why take it, it is thine."

"Your singing is atrocious"

"Millie seems to like it."

"That is because you are her father and she is too young to know better."

"It would be better if it were you."

"As you wish," I finally acquiesced, smiling tenderly. "Take heart, fair days will shine," I sang softly, bestowing a gentle kiss on my husband's lips. "Take any heart, take mine."

Roger's lips found mine and took them with no resistance. He swept me up into his arms, still powerful after all of these years, and carried me from the room. Let the maids talk. For the beating of that beloved heart would be my lullaby tonight.

* * *

I awoke that morning to the early-August sun warming my exposed shoulder. I ran my hand over Roger's chest, fingers lingering ever so lightly on the scars that marked it, tracing gently upon one near the center of his form in particular. His large hand gently engulfed mine, leaving the fingertips exposed, hovering over the spot just so.

"The mark you gave me." He pressed our hands flat upon it. He smiled, his eyes less teasing than tender - though both were present in those dark orbs. He had gained a new wrinkle near his eye, another beside his mouth, there was more grey in his hair now as he approached fifty; but still he was as handsome as he had ever been.

"I thought you were still asleep."

"Not since sunrise."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"I so rarely have the opportunity to watch you sleep. I could not bear to see it wasted."

"Roger," I murmured with a smile. I moved our hands and kissed the place where my bullet had pierced his flesh only five years ago.

He shifted his position, pulling me into his embrace. I leaned in to kiss him but he pulled back with that wry smile of his. "What was that you said?" I felt his cool fingers press into the curve of my spine.

"Roger!" The passion in that name escaping in a gasp. I must have him. I must feel his lips on mine.

"Mina," he mumbled just as my lips met his.

There was a knock at the door, then the sound of the knob turning.

"Mr. Norbert, I have a message from- Oh my gosh!" The young maid's face was a brilliant shade of scarlet. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to interrupt. I had no idea you were home, Ma'am."

Roger whispered with a vaguely wicked, smug smile, "You forgot to notify the staff, didn't you?"

I rolled away from Roger so we were sitting next to each other, pulling the covers up so as not to expose my nakedness to the maid. "I'm sorry, Angela. I arrived late and did not wish to wake the household," I said, mildly annoyed at myself for not foreseeing this eventuality.

"Who is the message from, Angela?" Roger asked.

"It is from Mr. Granger, sir." Angela was trying her best to avert her eyes.

Roger was momentarily taken aback. "Granger? What could he be calling about this early? You did remember to report to him, didn't you, darling?"

"Yes, we spoke before I left London."

"Well, what did he say?" Roger asked.

"He would not say what it was about, only that it was a matter of such a sensitive nature he felt it would be best discussed in person."

"In person? But I only just got back," I objected as though Angela were in some position to alter the situation.

"I am sorry, Ma'am, it is what he said."

I sighed, running my fingers through my long, sand blonde hair. "Well, I supposed there is nothing for it. With any luck I should be home by supper tomorrow." I said, gathering up my bedclothes. "Perhaps you should avoid telling Millie I was home, I could not bear her to think she missed me."

"Oh," Angela said, as if just comprehending. "He requested Mr. Norbert come as well."

Roger jerked up, leaning forward, "What? What could he want me for?" He looked to me.

I shook my head, eyes wide with surprise, "I haven't the slightest idea."

"Thank you, Angela, you are dismissed."

"Sir?" the diminutive maid chirped.

"Yes?" Roger regarded her irritably.

"Would you like me to inform the Nurse you will be going?"

"Oh, yes." He glanced over to me; a thought seemed to strike him. "Tell her to pack a trunk for Millie, she'll be coming with us."

I smiled in spite of myself. "Oh Roger! Do you mean it?"

"Why not? Let's make a holiday of it. It's been ages since we last saw Quentin and Gretchen and it is about time Millie had her first visit to London. Thank you, Angela."

The maid left the room, I could still see traces of pink on her neck.

"Oh Roger!" I threw my arms around him. "I can't thank you enough for this."

He smiled at me, giving me a peck on the lips, "Yes, you can. And I daresay you intend to."

I smiled wickedly, "I daresay you are correct, Mr. Bond."

* * *

An hour later we were still in bed, though now sitting, not quite ready to abandon this precious time.

"What could Granger be on about? You've only just returned," Roger said.

"Something must have happened during the night, but as to what I could not even venture a guess."

"Doesn't he remember, I'm retired?"

"I doubt he could forget for how he fought it."

"Well, he wouldn't call me out of retirement for nothing." He pulled on his shirt. "We'd best get dressed. We'll have almost an hour to Penrith and we do not want to miss the afternoon train."

We dressed and made our way to breakfast just before the clock struck ten.

"Momma!" a little voice from behind me cried as we were leaving the dining room. I turned to see my daughter, shaken free from her nurse, running with the toddling gait of a child late in their second year, the pale pink ribbon that vainly attempted to hold her hair streaming behind.

"Millie!" I swooped her up into my arms where she buried her face in my shoulder. "How is my darling girl? Here, let me look at you. Have you grown since I last saw you?" She was certainly a beauty in her blue satin dress that served to highlight her glossy, raven black hair. But, of course, she must have the ribbon Sarah Moneypenny had given her, for it was her favorite in all the world, despite the fact it matched little that the nurse dressed her in. The nurse had implored I intervene, to no avail, for I enjoyed the reminder of my former Lady's Maid; now my secretary and an occasional agent in the London office.

"Two fingers, Momma." She held up two tiny fingers to the back of her head as if to show me.

"Two whole fingers? You had better be careful or you will be taller than your father before you are six!" I exclaimed.

She laughed, "Don't be silly, Momma!"

"Daddy!" she proclaimed, upon seeing Roger. "Daddy look! It's Momma!"

Roger caressed the back of her head, "So it is. Doesn't she look beautiful this morning?" He gazed at me as he said this.

"Yes, Momma is the most bootiful momma in the whole world." She stretched her arms for emphasis.

"What has Daddy been filling your head with while I was gone?"

"Only words and facts," he answered.

I fixed him with a wry look. "You know, we do have to go to London today."

"I'm sure Granger could wait another day."

I gave my husband a peck on the cheek and turned to my daughter.

"Thank you, my darling." I kissed Millie on her rosy cheek. "And you are the most beautiful little girl in the whole world." I kissed her other cheek. "Are you ready to go to London?"

She hid her face in my shoulder.

"You're not afraid to go to London, are you?" Roger asked, trying to fix her bow.

"No," she lied, chewing on her fingers. She always chewed her fingers when nervous.

"Do you know who lives in London?" I asked.

"No..." she shook her head and half her body with it, her fingers still in her mouth.

I gently brushed her fingers from her mouth, "Miss Sarah lives in London. You remember Miss Sarah who gave you that pretty pink ribbon in your hair." I fondled the little half bow.

Her eyes brightened, "Miss Sarah!"

"Yes, Miss Sarah. She doesn't know you are coming so it's going to be a surprise."

"A suprise?"

"Yes. She's going to be very happy to see you. Maybe she'll even buy you a new ribbon." I might have promised her her very own star for the thrill upon her face. "So now are you ready?"

She nodded her head, as well as her entire body down to her waist in reply.

"Then, let us be off. We would not want to miss the train. Then we would not be able to see Miss Sarah."

She appeared horrified at the thought. "Momma! We have to go now!" She pulled at the lapel of my jacket as though that might somehow move us faster.

"I think someone is anxious to go," Roger smiled.

"Let's hope she stays that way for the whole of the train ride." I replied.

* * *

At first, Millie had been captivated by the train ride, eagerly standing on my lap with her hands and nose pressed against the window, but as time wore on she slowly became bored by it. For an hour I was able to keep her attention through stories but even that soon lost its hold. She then climbed onto Roger's lap, rousing him from his sleep, begging that he might bounce her on his knee. She screamed with glee as he did, making me quite glad for our private compartment. Finally, she curled up in the empty seat beside him and slept with her head resting upon his leg as he stroked her hair. I smiled fondly at the pair of them, though not without a pang of sorrow for all I had missed while away; those many times I was away.

"Domesticity becomes you," I said.

"Do you think so?"

"I never imagined you would be quite such a devoted father."

"Nor did I. Well, I suppose, I never imagined I should be a father at all. I truly thought I would die alone on some distant shore."

"You still may, if Granger has his say."

"Yes, but it won't be alone. You would never forgive me if I didn't say goodbye."

"I would never forgive you for dying at all."

"Then I am afraid I'm going to disappoint you very much one day."

Infuriating man. I turned his chin toward me with the touch of a finger and kissed him. Millie took a deep breath in her sleep. Roger and I watched her sleep for a minute before once more turning to each other.

"You must know, you are to blame for this," he said, wryly.

"Me? I was all set to marry Quentin Underhill. You were the one who could not contain his feelings any longer."

"Well, if you had been content to knit doilies and make baskets instead of saving the world, then perhaps my heart would not have been so enticed." He pulled me to him, kissing me once more, leaving me again thankful for our private compartment.

"When did you fall in love with me, Mr. Bond?" I asked.

"To say when implies there was a single moment. Though I do recall the exact moment I knew there was a problem."

"A problem?" I said, provokingly.

"Yes, a problem." He cupped my cheek in his hand, running his thumb along the bone. "But there were many moments before wherein my heart betrayed me. When you found Bess in the bathing house. Or the moment you approached me at the cafe. When you put that pistol to Chapman's head. In any of those moments, my heart was gone. But it was on the beach, that was when I knew it would not return to me. And when I saw you that night in your room... I knew if I did not go then I never would."

"So you went as far as Hong Kong."

"And even that was not far enough to cure me."

"Is that why you didn't come back with Paul?"

"No, that was because he was insane and seeing me would only further that insanity - he would think himself still in the camp," he said in that matter of fact way of his. Then he smiled tenderly at me, "But I cannot tell you how desperately I wanted to be there. To be in England and not to see you; it felt as though my insides were rent apart."

"How do you tolerate when I am gone so often?"

"Because I have Millie, she is the part of you that makes your absence bearable."

"No small wonder she is over-indulged."

"I would indulge you too, if I were given the proper chance."

"As though Granger would ever give such a chance."

"We could always tell him we intend to have another child. He gave us almost two years with Millie."

"Do you want to have another child?" I knew he did, I just wanted to hear him say the words. Emily was never intended to be an only child.

"My darling, I would like nothing better than to give the Mennings a run for their money."

"Roger! They have five!" It was true, Dinah and Heinrich had been nothing if not prolific, welcoming to the world Gregory James, Hedwig (named for Menning's mother), Quentin, Louisa (named for Dinah's own mother), Nellie, and Grover (who was my favorite). They now required an entire pew whenever they attended Mass, which was frequently for they were always grateful to the Jesuit Priest who had married them and wished to honor their oath. They had taken well to Catholicism for it suited them.

"Six sounds like a good number, don't you think?" he asked.

"Let us work on two, first."

* * *

We arrived at the main office at half past four, just as many of the daytime agents were packing up before the night shift arrived. Only the portly and unpleasant looking Agent Grimsby still sat at his desk as though the work day were not ending. He had lost a son to the Remnant and would work all night if Granger did not force him to leave. If only he had lost the boy to death, instead, he might find some peace of mind. Instead, the younger Grimsby had been seduced by the promises of Du Beauchene. He was a child of avarice who had locked away the fortunes of one too many a wealthier man in the vault and was only too happy at the prospect that he might liberate them and spend them in the sunshine of the South of Italy as they were meant, rather then leave them to languish locked in a dark and airless container.

"Miss Sarah!" Millie cried as she caught sight of the young, blonde woman fashionably attired in a shirtwaist dress. Looking at her now, it was hard to believe this was the same niave little maid who had once worked for my insidious uncle. Sarah had been my recommendation to replace our former secretary, Gina Harper. After the Kingdom of Munster fell it was found Veena was not the only woman Sperry had compromised himself with for once the world that the Kingdom had fallen was announced he absconded to Spain under the guise of being Miss Harper's father. He was charged with treason, but such efforts were, in the end, unnecessary. For Du Beauchene, not wishing to leave any loose ends, made quick work of him and Miss Harper, for good measure. Sarah had proven to have an aptitude for the work. Perhaps it had only been the lack of challenge that a maid's work presented that had left her seeming a simpleton. Millie broke free of my fingers and ran to her.

"My stars!" Sarah exclaimed, kneeling down to catch the tot, "Is that my little Emily? Why you've grown so, I scarcely recognize you."

"Miss Sarah, may we go to the park and feed the ducks?"

"Of course we may, after the meeting. I am certain Mr. Granger would like to see you. He hasn't seen you since you were just a baby."

"How is Granger?" Roger asked.

"His health has been a little funny as of late, but it is probably just a cold coming on. It is good to see you again Mr. Bond."

"It is only Lord Norbert now." Roger answered with a smile. "James Bond is retired."

She glanced off uncomfortably. I had the sense she knew something we, as of yet, did not. "Mr. Granger is waiting for you in his office."

As we followed Sarah into the office, the desk so littered with papers they almost obscured his tea, Benjamin Granger stood to greet us. He still had the appearance of a clerk in his grayish blue waistcoat and white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His silvery hair was cropped short and parted to the side of his high, square brow. "M, Bond, I'm glad you were able to come on such short notice. And I see you've brought Emily." He managed a smile, though it was clear this was only for the sake of my daughter, for his eyes revealed the stress he was under.

"Say hello to Mr. Granger, Emily," I said.

Millie, normally quite gregarious with strangers, twisted on my hand, turning her face into my skirts, fingers in her mouth. She glanced at him from behind the fabric.

"Hullo, Mr. Granger," she whispered, and turned back into my skirts.

He bent down slightly, "Hello, Emily. How old are you?" He was perfectly aware of Millie's age, but I suspected he knew this might be the best line of conversation to break through to her.

"I'm two. I'll be three next month," she answered, shyly.

"Three! Why you're almost a young lady. My granddaughter is three. Here is a picture of her," from his pocket he pulled out a little cameo portrait of a young girl with brown hair and grey eyes and handed it to Millie. "Perhaps you will have the chance to meet her."

"What's her name?" Millie asked, holding the trinket in both hands.

"Meredith."

"She's pretty."

"Yes, she is. Do you like to draw, Emily?"

"Yes." She looked up from the cameo with sparkling eyes.

"Well, perhaps Miss Moneypenny might be able to find you some paper and a pen and you can draw a nice picture for Meredith. What do you think?"

Emily nodded her head up and down excitedly.

"Very good. Miss Moneypenny, if you would."

Sarah led Millie out into the main room. I could hear her chattering excitedly about the things she wanted to draw for the girl in the cameo. Granger walked over and shut the door, locking it with a small brass key. I noticed faint white lines on his fingernails as he turned the lock. He must have accidentally injured himself.

"She's very tall for her age," he said, conversationally, closing the blinds on the office windows. When neither of us responded, he continued, "I suppose that is to be expected, given her parentage."

"You did not call us all the way here to talk about Emily, Ben," Roger said.

Granger stood, still facing the window with his back toward us. I knew this to be a sign he intended to ask for something unreasonable enough that he preferred not to look us in the eye. "No, I did not. I have a case that requires a rather... delicate hand."

"In case you have forgotten, I am retired. Your own doctor refused to clear me."

"I realize that, but I've had a letter from the Pinkerton Detective Agency."

"Pinkertons?"

It had been years since I had heard the Pinkerton name invoked. Not since the Kingdom of Munster when Roger had been forced to contact an old friend, Pinkerton Detective Herbert "The Poet" Spencer for assistance in uncovering Veena Ernst's background. It was odd that the American detective agency would deign to contact us.

"Yes. A man named Herbert Spencer requested you specifically for the matter." Granger threw a piece of paper on the desk in front of Roger. At the top was the all seeing eye that was the emblem of the agency and at the bottom, in large script, was the signature of Herbert F. Spencer. "He is of the opinion that you are the best person for the case, and given the details, I tend to agree."

Roger took the paper in his hand, glancing over it. "What is the case?"

"Perhaps you have heard of the Homestead steel strike in the Americas?"

"I heard something in passing about it at the club from one of the factory owners, but I don't see what a labor dispute has to do with us."

"Two weeks ago the industrialist who was in charge of the factory during the incident was nearly assassinated. Mr. Frick survived the attempt, but only just. There are rumors that his business partner may have ordered it in retaliation for the uprising at the mill."

"How does this involve the secret service?" I asked.

"His business partner is a prominent Scottish citizen and philanthropist, a Mr. Andrew Carnegie by name, and to add to the matter, Mr. Carnegie was in Scotland at the time of both incidents and still remains there."

Hell's Bells and buckets of blood! I silently cursed.

Roger spoke first, "So if he did order the attempted assassination, he would have done it from our jurisdiction."

"Correct."

"So you are planning to send us to Scotland?"

"No. For everything that might be said about Andrew Carnegie, he is a pragmatist. Beneath his genial demeanor hides a shrewd businessman. He has been holed up in his cottage in the highlands. Even if we were able to infiltrate it, he has likely burned the evidence." I had a sneaking suspicion I would not like where this was going. "We need Agent M and yourself to go to the Americas to see if you can locate any evidence linking Mr. Carnegie to the attack."

"America!" Roger slammed his hand's on Granger's desk; an action that elicited no response from the older man.

"Yes, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to be precise."

"The steel town?" I asked. I had heard of it, but only enough to recognize the name.

"The very same. You will be staying with the family of Henry Clay Frick at their estate under the guise of being a potential investor. With the strength of the Moore and Norbert family names behind you, and given the circumstances, I expect they will welcome you with open arms. It is a rather simple case, but as you can see, given the rank and fortune of those involved... well, we must be certain to provide a level of care and discretion that I can trust only my best agents to provide."

Roger turned around, leaning his back against the desk in frustration, the letter crumpling between his hand and the edge of the desk.

"What about Emily?" he asked. "We'd be away for over a month. I can't leave her alone for so long."

"I imagine you would take her with you. Mr. Frick has young children of his own, I believe he has a daughter about Emily's age. It is essential that you appear as a proper British family. To be perfectly honest, you are the only agents I have who could possibly take this assignment." Granger rarely begged. I could only recall two other times in my life that I had seen him do so. Whoever this Frick and Carnegie were, it was clear their business was important to the crown.

Roger appeared torn, as I felt. We had sworn an oath to our Queen and country to do whatever might be necessary to protect them. It was our duty to go. And yet, the journey was long, and to be entrenched with the family left us little room for error. And then there was the matter of Millie. How might we explain it to her? Was it even right to take her to the other side of the world to reside with total strangers. Was it safe? There had already been one attempt on this man's life - what was to say there might not be another?

"Let us think on it," he finally said. "We'll give you our answer tomorrow."

* * *

"It would give us the opportunity to see my brother, Chet. I haven't had the chance to since the supper when Father disowned him." I said as I rolled down my stocking in our hotel room bed.

"I will say, that was the most entertaining dinner party I have been to in a while." Roger smiled, pulling his bowtie from his collar.

"I regret that we had to miss the wedding."

"You know your father forbade it. Besides, you were in Switzerland."

I thought back for a moment, "That's true, I was. Was that really only in June? I can't believe my brother is two months married."

"I still can't believe he actually went all the way to Boston to marry that Salvationist woman," Roger laughed. "I never thought much of him until then. Do you remember what she said to your parents as she and your brother left the dinner?"

"Oh yes, 'And thank you for your hospitality.' You could have knocked Father over with a feather!" I laughed.

The scene had been simply stunning, I had never expected my own hedonistic younger brother to announce his engagement to a woman from the Salvation Army. We had all expected he would propose to the daughter of Count Mason, but he had surprised us, instead falling in love with a Salvation Army Major. Father was furious, a fury only aiding by the young woman refusing to be cowed by his admonitions and threats. I supposed, bolstered by her boldness, Chet found the courage to finally stand up to Father which only further enraged Father. He had thought to subdue Chet by threatening to disinherit him, but the threat did not have the desired effect as Chet, instead, chose to leave with the young woman. But, as Lysander once said, 'The course of true love never did run smooth' and Arthur and Elizabeth conspired to break the engagement. It was a terrible thing they did, one that might not have been discovered if not for Arthur's untimely death. I felt some sadness at the news of his passing, but as Millie was still only an infant, I was unable to attend the funeral. Afterwards Elizabeth disappeared. It took almost a year and the aid of Roger's former contact from Africa, Sir Alfred Greenley, to finally track her down, doing penance as a Governess under the name Mary Bird. Not many months later, Jet disappeared following a trip to Norwich, only to turn up in Boston, Massachusetts where the Salvationist woman had moved to. Father was furious when he would not return, legally disowning and disinheriting my brother. He was even more so when they announced their reconciliation and engagement a year later. Father banned us from the event. I had to admit, I had never been so proud of my brother.

Roger turned serious, "It might be good for you to get away. Far from the poisonous shadow of Monsieur Du Beauchene." He spat the name out as though something vile. "And I'm sure Millie would enjoy it. It's not as though we will be living in hovels. They are a wealthy, respectable family. And judging by Frank's report the assassin was a complete buffoon. Shot and stabbed the man and still didn't manage to kill him. If there is any evidence of a conspiracy, we should have no difficulty discovering it."

"But what of Millie's safety?" I asked.

"If you are truly that worried, perhaps we might leave her with her uncle until we have investigated the situation ourselves. But, if your were to ask me, I doubt there would be any place safer that she might be than with two secret service agents at the house of a millionaire who has no doubt increased his security since the attempt on his life."

I nodded, considering his points. It was true. How might she be safer than surrounded by those who were watching for trouble?

"Then we are agreed?" I asked.

"Yes. But let's not make it too easy on Granger. I don't want him thinking he can regularly make outrageous requests of us." His eyes twinkled as he said this, leaning over for a kiss. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him in to me.


	3. Chapter 2

"Big fish!" Millie shouted, reaching her chubby, grasping hands out over the rail from the safety of my arms. Near the boat a spout of water streamed from the blowhole of the giant dark creature in the water below. It's tail, easily the size of a rowboat, crashed against the undulating glassy surface, sending up white foam droplets onto myself and my daughter.

"Yes, darling, they are called whales. Though they aren't fish. They are mammals."

"Mamimals," she tried, clearly confusing the word with 'animals'. She would learn it in time.

I smiled tenderly, "Yes, dear, mammals."

Roger sidled up to us, "What rubbish are you filling our daughter's head with today?"

"Daddy!" Millie cried at his appearance.

"It's not rubbish, it's facts about whales."

"She is only two years old, she doesn't even know what mammals are. If it swims in the water she thinks it a fish."

"I suppose you would have her believing whales are fish until she is old and grey if it suited her."

"She thought daddy was a fish last month. It was quite difficult to explain."

"Daddy, mamimals!" Millie pointed at the whale, proudly grinning at her display of the new thing she had learned.

Roger appeared as though he were about to burst out laughing, quickly pressing the side of his fist to his lips. "She thinks the whales are called mamimals," he muttered through his fist.

"Oh you shut up." I tried to sound irritated, but in truth I could scarce keep from laughing, myself.

"Mami mami mamimals," Millie sang as the sea monster breached the water, showing off its massive stomach as it flipped backward, landing on its back. Instinctively, I turned, pressing my child to my body as though to shield her. The wave from the whale's fall slammed into the stern, shoving the boat forward. Millie shrieked with joy at the spray of water that showered us, clapping her hands as though not bothered in the least that her hair was wet. I, on the other hand, was now quite bothered by the sudden chill soaking through my wrap. Roger quickly divested me of the garment, and replaced it with his own coat, the wrap hanging limply from his hand, water pooling on the ship's deck.

"Thank you, darling," I said. I jerked my chin slightly forward in an almost imperceptible pointing motion. Roger turned to where I indicated.

A young man dressed in an immaculate white uniform approached us. He removed his hat and smiled in a somewhat servile manner as he addressed us, "Captain Jones wished that I convey to you that we expect to make the port of Boston by noon tomorrow."

"Thank you, Yeoman Weston," Roger said.

"He was hoping that you and your family might join he and his wife for supper this evening."

"Of course, we would be glad to." We had dined with the Jones's almost every evening since we had embarked. They were a most agreeable couple. On such a mission we would normally be inclined to lay low and avoid such associations, but given that we were to play the role of high profile guests it would do us no good were the Fricks to hear that their taciturn guests had arrived safely - a notice of temperament that could be conveyed simply by omitting words such as 'pleased' or 'glad' in the telegraph. Captain Jones was particularly fond of Millie for she much reminded him of his own grandchildren in Newcastle upon Tyne and thus allowed her command of the ship.

"I will convey to him your answer." The man leaned forward into almost a bow that he was eye to eye with Millie, his smile now altered from one of service to that of genuine fondness, "And how are you today, Miss Emily?"

She nodded happily. "We saw mamimals!"

"Mamimals?" Yeoman Weston was confused.

"She means whales," I supplied sheepishly.

"Oh, mamimals," he said, playing along. Though he did not possess children himself, I had been quite thankful for Yeoman Weston's almost preternatural ability to understand them. It had proven an unmitigated blessing on those long, boring days at sea when Millie had obstinately decided there was nothing her parents might do that could placate her. Taking note of a glance from Roger to myself he made the suggestion to Millie, "Perhaps you might like to come and visit Captain Jones for a spell, I'd bet he'll let you steer. What do you say, Miss Emily?"

Millie shook her entire body in agreement.

"Now you behave yourself, Millie," I said, setting her down. She ran over to Yeoman Weston who had slightly bent so that her hand could reach his and the pair walked off together, looking quite the perfect nautical picture with he in his uniform and she in her new navy blue dress.

We had embarked on our journey after a quick visit to the London shops. I had not brought nearly enough clothing for a months long sojourn to America and certainly none of it especially fine. For I had anticipated keeping company with clergy, not millionaires, and had planned my wardrobe accordingly so as not to appear as a peacock in the henhouse. Despite the British reputation for frugality and modesty, it would be quite the affront to our hosts were I to arrive in such shabby clothes. It would risk undoing the entire plan. Roger, of course, had none of these worries, for a gentleman has little need to play to fashion once he has reached the age where he might be called 'distinguished.' It was Millie who had received most of the attention, having grown so in my absence that her entire wardrobe required replacing. Roger had not thought to trouble himself with the matter for it was summer and, according to his thinking, what should it matter if a dress covers the knee or rises above it? I was inclined to agree, but such inclinations would not suit. Thus Roger proved just as keen to spoil her with new clothing as he had been negligent in noting the need for them and purchased her a dozen or so new dresses and other accouterments, dedicating an entire trunk to her needs.

"Your brother telegraphed that there would be someone to meet us when we arrived?"

"Yes. He wrote that depending when we arrived it might be himself or possibly his father-in-law, but he would do his utmost to ensure it was himself for he was eager to see us again and that we should meet his wife properly."

"Her name was Bertie, was it not?"

"I think so. Chet always refers to her as Bertie, so her Christian name might be Roberta. But I'm not certain. Father banned all talk of her and, I confess, I did not see the need to ask. I know her maiden name was Smith," I said.

"Roberta Smith. Now your brother is currently employed as a grocer, correct?"

"Yes, and he is quite proud of his accomplishment so do be mindful not to belittle him."

"I would never dream of it. I regard him more highly as a brother-in-law now that he is a grocer than I ever did when he was a Lord."

"Do you really mean that?" My eyes were shining at his pronouncement.

"You know I do. Even ignoring the deplorable state he existed in before. There is a greater distinction in a man that knows the value of a hard day's work than any wealth or title might ever bring. That he sacrificed all for the woman he loved only furthers the cause."

"You never could resist a romance," I teased.

"True. But I honestly have gained a certain respect for your brother over the whole affair. I am proud to call in my brother, though a humble grocer he may be."

I pulled in close to my husband, placing a hand upon his chest. "And you a great Lord of Cumberland."

"And I married to the most vexing Lady in Cumberland."

I pouted. "Only the most vexing in Cumberland?"

"Well, there are some who might argue for a grander title, perhaps even the whole of the world it could be said there are none like you. But it is not to the world I would lose you to, nor would I sacrifice you to it even in word, rather I should like to keep you in Cumberland, by my side."

It seemed Roger had the unusual talent to take my heart, already so full of him, and fill it to bursting in only a few simple words. I kissed him there, in full view of the public, on the stern of the ship.

* * *

The following day we made to debark in Boston. I found the waiting between the time we came into view of the monumental church steeples of the bay until the gangplank had been placed to lead us into the five story customs building the most tedious in all of our two week journey, so eager was I to see my banished brother once more after almost two years. But it was not the sight of Chet that greeted me as I strolled from the customs building into the bustling pier but one far more stunning. His black hair and full beard were now densely peppered with grey and he leaned heavily on a simple wooden cane but still upon his back was that same blue wool coat. But what shocked me even more than his presence was that of a black eyepatch covering where one of those twinkling blue orbs had been, though the other was quite alight as he saw me and a grin of recognition spread across his face.

"Lieutenant Smith!" I cried, dropping my bag and umbrella in my rush to embrace him.

"Miss Moore! I had no idea you would be travelling on this ship."

"Nor I that you had come to Boston. What happened to your eye?"

"The Skeletons. Threw a rock at my spectacles and then broke my leg for good measure. The doctors couldn't save the eye, but the leg has recovered, just hurts a bit when rain is coming. Aye, but that is in the past. It is good to see you!" He embraced me again. "So what brings you to Boston, Miss Moore?"

"I believe you mean: the former Miss Moore." Roger interjected, coming up behind me with Millie, a smile of pride playing upon his lips. He never tired of reminding others that it was he who had finally captured the heart of the indelible Miss Philomena Moore. On this occasion I felt he looked a bit too pleased with himself and greatly desired to see him humbled to the height of normal man, but my gladness at seeing my old friend would not allow for distraction.

"I have come to see my brother."

Lt. Smith's eye widened with surprise behind his spectacles. "Lord Norbert! As I live and breathe! Then you are Lady Norbert, now?"

I smiled, "Yes, and this is our daughter, Emily."

Lt. Smith's hand flew to his brow, "Miss Moore, married and now a mother! In my prayers I still see you as the twenty-two year old girl who burned herself on my tea kettle and charmed Russell Shaw into silence at the supper table. I had an inkling there might have been something affection greater than simple acquaintance between the pair of you."

"Then you have the powers of a prophet, for I was wholly unaware of it," I said. "Roger?"

"You know the answer to that," he said, planting a kiss upon my forehead.

It seemed a connection had formed in Lt. Smith's mind, for now he regarded me with a rather different look of interest. "Then you are Chester Moore's sister?" he asked.

"Yes..." I answered slowly. "How do you know my brother?"

"I can't believe I never even thought to ask before. I was aware of a younger sister but I never considered he might have an elder one as well. But then Moore is such a common name..."

I finally understood his meaning, "As is Smith," I said seeking affirmation.

"Only the good Lord could have orchestrated such a thing, your brother marrying my Bertha."

"Ah, so that is why he called her Bertie, it was short for Bertha," Roger said with a teasing glance thrown my way. It was not Roberta, as I had guessed. I shot him a sharp look.

"Yes, he is the only one who calls her that. I daresay, the only one she would permit to call her that," Lt. Smith said, smiling. "Anyhow, no sense in dawdling here any longer now that we have found each other, let us be on our way. We might get a coach, unless you would prefer to take the streetcar."

"The streetcar?" I asked.

"Yes, it is quite the invention, they run entirely on electricity."

"On electricity? Would that be safe?"

"I wondered the very same, but I assure you they are, I even rode one in a lightening storm and came to no harm. They are mostly just horsecars that have been altered to run on streetcar tracks. It's much cheaper and far more comfortable than a coach."

"Then let us take one of these streetcars," Roger said, surveying the cobblestone roads before us. "I'd rather not have to tolerate coach wheels on these roads if I'm not required to."

* * *

We arrived at the little apartment on Rutland Square less than half an hour later. I had been quite amazed at the monstrous beasts that were called streetcars, though not half so amazed as the conductor and Lt. Smith had been when, presented with the nearly two foot gap between the trolley step and the road, I grasped the copper handle and pulled myself up, easily alighting onto the step rather than trying to step up as the other ladies had done (their indiscretion catching the eyes of leering men who sat on nearby benches as though they had nothing better to do than gawk at a woman's ankle).

"There is no need to show off, darling." Roger whispered to me from the corner of his mouth. I flashed him a teasing smile.

Lt. Smith walked through the little garden fenced with decorative wrought iron and knocked on the little green door that hid embedded in the outside cement stair of the tall apartment building. I noticed, with no small pleasure of the memory of the Smith's house in Worthing, a miniature rosebush growing in a planter beside the door. The door swung open to reveal a young man, handsomer than I had ever known him to be though he looked older than a man in his late twenties. Years of Laudanum abuse had taken their toll on his features, though clean living had restored much, lines had marked their long furrows in his flesh and his cheeks still retained a touch of the hollows that had marked his prolonged use.

"Philomena!" he said happily, taking me into an embrace. "How good it is to see you! How was your journey?"

"It was quite well, Chet, thank you."

Chet clasped Roger's hand, giving a slight bow of deference. It was strange to see Chet, who had never felt the need to bow before anyone below a Duke if it did not suit his interest, acknowledge his fallen state. "Lord Norbert, it is always a pleasure."

"Likewise," Roger said, though this was said with the air of formality that conveyed less pleasure than simple societal practice of greeting. Roger might have a certain fondness for Chet brought about by my brother's actions, but such things he would not easily reveal to any but myself. Chet was still disgraced in the eyes of English society and largely a stranger to my husband; Roger must play his own part accordingly. This visit was orchestrated to please his wife and for no other reason, Lord Roger Norbert was not in the habit of going against my father's wishes if it could be avoided.

"And here is Emily!" Chet scooped little Millie up in his arms. She glanced over at me for reassurance regarding this stranger with the sand blond hair; I smiled and nodded encouragingly.

"Millie, this is your Uncle Chet," I said. "Can you say 'Hello, Uncle Chet'?"

"Hello, Uncle Jet," she whispered through the hand she was chewing, her baby tongue slurring his name as my dear sister Elizabeth's had when she was Emily's age.

He broke out into laughter, "Even your own daughter! Mina you are the only person in the world who still insists upon calling me Chet."

I stuck my chin in the air, "It is an older sister's prerogative to call her younger whatever she wishes."

"Then I suppose I should be thankful it is not something worse," he laughed. It was strange to see my brother laugh. It was Chet, but not as I had ever known him. Not a trace of the pallor or lethargy of laudanum, nor the bite of bitterness from our father's cruelty. It were as though in the course of a year he had become a completely different man than the one I had known.

"Jet, is that them?" a voice from the back called out. Chet put Millie down and she immediately ran back to Roger who took her hand.

"Bertie, they're here!" Chet called toward the back room.

A moment later a stout young woman with dark brown hair cut in line with the nape of her neck appeared in the door of what must be the kitchen smiling radiantly. She absently wiped her hands on her apron. "Oh praise God!" She took both my hands in hers. "How was your journey? We prayed for fair weather but I'm afraid that is something that tends to be more effective with greater notice."

"We only had one storm about halfway in," I answered.

"It wasn't too bad, I hope?" Bertha asked worriedly.

"No, I was a bit ill, but Millie seemed to think it great fun, and Roger is quite an old hand with boats." I had said the words without thinking, my guard down due to the presence of my brother and the surprise of seeing Lt. Smith once again.

"I was not aware you sailed, Lord Norbert," Chet said.

Roger gave me a warning glare before adopting his characteristic simper. "I used to. Yachts, when I was younger. Not so much now, of course. I prefer to keep my feet on solid ground whenever possible."

"Well, if you find you are interested, a few of our members do like to go fishing in the mornings. I doubt they would mind the company."

"I will consider it," Roger said in such a way that clearly conveyed he would not.

"Do you need any assistance with your trunks?" Jet asked.

"If you would mind taking Emily's?" Roger suggested, easily hefting his own trunk over his shoulder with Millie fastidiously holding his other hand. "I can manage my own and Lt. Smith seems to have Mina's well in hand."

Lt. Smith led the way down the short hallway to the back, the size of the trunk when coupled with the can causing his gait to have a strange shifting to it, reappearing a few moments later with my husband and brother behind him. My brother collapsed into a worn wingbacked chair. He rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Now, Miss Moore, would you care for some tea?"

"I already have a cup, father," Bertha replied, to my surprise. Though why I should find this surprising was beyond me. I supposed I had never thought that there might be another Miss Moore to answer him other than myself.

Lt. Smith's waxy cheeks reddened slightly, "I'm sorry, I meant Lady Norbert. I think it shall be some time before I adjust to your new title, would you mind terribly if I simply called you by the name you prefer?"

"Of course you may, George!" I replied. "Hearing you call me anything but Mina seems so strange to me."

Chet and Bertha exchanged surprised glances.

It was Chet who broached the question first, "I take it by your familiarity that you have already been acquainted?"

"Yes," I answered, "I have known George for years. I intruded upon his hospitality in the summer of - oh what was it? 1884?"

George nodded, "1884. How could I forget? But it was no intrusion." He smiled paternally upon us. "I don't know what I would have done without you and Roger to keep my spirits up during those dark days."

"Lord Norbert was there as well?" Chet had well surpassed surprised and was now quite astonished. "I was led to believe the first time you two met was at Crawford Hall when he came to hunt four years ago."

"Well... that is not exactly true." I said, trying to determine how much I should reveal to my brother. "I had actually met Roger twice before then, as a consequence of his friendship with Quentin Underhill. Once at a supper party at Uncle Richard's house and then again in Worthing. I assure you, it was quite coincidence."

"Well, Worthing was on account of some milk cows I wished to purchase," Roger supplied, recalling the old lie.

"That is true, but it was your acquaintance with Quentin that led to the invitation."

"I hate to correct you twice, darling, (at my own peril), but I believe that was more related to Mr. Smith having prior knowledge of my father and the former's pity on me given the state of lodging. But our first meeting, at the supper party, was on account of my acquaintance with Quentin."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose you are right. It has been so long I had forgotten." In truth, there was no chance I might forget the circumstances that had led to Roger and I sharing the same abode during that particular summer. The summer of Charles Chapman, the Blackpool Killer. But if I were to recall it too vividly there would be greater question as to how I had neglected to mention it. "It was just before Millie took ill. I suppose I was too preoccupied to even think on the matter."

"Oh yes," Chet said, his eyes cast to his knees. "I apologize, I did not mean to bring up painful memories."

"She would not want us to forget her," I said, confident this invocation of my dear friend, Millie Danvers's, death would silence any further questions he might have. "That is why Edgar and Ingrid named their first child for her."

Chet's face lit up, "Oh, have they already had a child?"

"Yes, a son, Milton Chester."

He laughed again. I could not get used to that sound. "So, I am a namesake?"

I took a cup of tea George offered and sipped it. "Yes. But if anyone asks, it is Father who has the honor. They are expecting another sometime after Christmas."

"I'm glad to hear it, if any two souls deserve happiness it is they. I suppose I will have to write to them with my congratulations."

"I can take the letter, if you like."

"So he still is having the post watched?"

"It is Father. How did you expect he might react? You ran off in the dead of night, as it were, with no word as to what you were doing or where you were going. He thought you dead. We all did."

"And thus he has seen fit to have all involved treat me as though I were."

I nodded. "You turned up in Boston, working for a grocer and living in a Salvation Army poorhouse, and then you refused to return. Were it just for love, some of our associates might have understood, but that you remained in poverty after your affections had been spurned... well, most of them think you quite mad."

"Oh that he is," Bertha said, a twinkle in her eye. She entwined her fingers with Chet's, upon them I saw a golden ring with two stones of blackest jet surrounding a beryl. "He is quite mad. I assure you, I thought the very same when he appeared at my door."

"What did you say?" I asked. I had never heard the story of their reunion.

"I told him to leave me be and slammed the door in his face," she said proudly. I could not help but note an approving smirk from her father.

"Chet?!" I said.

"It's entirely true. She wouldn't open that door for anything."

"And still you stayed? Gave up everything for a shut door?"

"Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant seeking beautiful pearls, who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had and bought it," Chet said.

Roger nodded, clasping my hand.

"I never thought the day would come when I would hear you quoting scripture," I teased.

"You and me both; though Bertie would tell you she knew it all along."

"With the amount of work God was putting into you, I knew He could not fail," Bertha said. "Though I was not so certain as to my continued part in it."

"So how did he change your mind?"

"He proved the change he claimed. He stayed. He joined the Salvation Army. He set himself to learning the Gospel and helping those in need. He experienced a different kind of poverty, not of the soul, but of the body, and it changed him. He learned the value of hard work. He became the man I knew he could be."

"Not that you made it easy for me," Chet smirked.

"When have I ever made things easy for you?" she said, puckishly. "Why would I suddenly start then?"

Chet kissed her hand just below the digit upon which the regard ring sat. "Speaking of starting things, do you need any help with supper? It's quite a crowd we have here."

"Chet, you cook now?" I asked.

"I can competently boil water, if that's what you mean."

"You can do more than that," Bertha chimed in. "Jet is quite a good cook."

"So long as it's potatoes. I practically lived on them for a year. It gets a bit tiresome only eating them baked."

"Would you like to help as well?" Bertha asked me.

"Oh no! Unlike my brother, I never did learn to properly boil water."

"Perhaps a nap, then?" George suggested. "I can see our dear little Emily is starting to fall asleep where she stands."

Indeed, Millie was still holding her father's hand but was leaning heavily against the column their joined arms formed, her eyes slowly falling closed and then she shaking her head to open them again, wanting to stay awake to see the adults speaking but unable to.

"I'll put her down. I could do with a bit of rest, myself." Roger said. Then he whispered into my ear, "If you aren't tired, darling, perhaps you might wish to take the time to see more of the town," turning upon me his uncanny ability to read people (the hallmark of a good spy; and certainly, in my estimation, he was the best).

"I wonder, might we go for a walk?" I asked Lt. Smith. Much as I wished to spend time with my brother, now that George, that dear man who in one summer had been more a father to me than my own, was before me I yearned for the chance to walk with him as we had once done in Worthing so many years ago.

"If Lord Norbert approves," Lt. Smith said.

"Of course. I am certain my wife would enjoy seeing Boston. I would be most grateful if you might give her a tour."

"Then let us go on ahead," Lt. Smith said, offering me his arm.

"Thank you, Roger." I bestowed upon his cheek a token of my thanks. Then I slid my arm through Lt. Smith's and off we went.

* * *

"So when did you meet my brother?" I asked as we strolled through the park commons.

"It was when my daughter, Bertha, had been injured by a man with a paving stone and was gravely ill with an infection. It was truly a miracle she survived. A miracle and your brother's generosity."

"Yes, I do recall hearing about that, though only in passing in a letter from my sister. I was quite surprised by his actions."

"Not as surprised as he, to hear him tell it. It seems strange to me now that there was a time I should prefer Bertha to die a spinster than marry him."

"Not to me. I can rather clearly imagine your horror at the proposal. I do not have any illusions about my brother's behaviors. I am eternally thankful for your daughter. If not for her influence, I fear it would not have been long before Chet followed his friend into the grave."

Lt. Smith's visage darkened at the mention of Arthur. I had not heard but could guess why. Bertha had been Elizabeth's companion in the house after my dear sister lost her baby. I had not forgotten Arthur's actions on the day of his father's funeral. I would never forget them. I could swear I still saw his mark upon my neck. Roger told me it was all in my mind, that it had healed and gone, but I could never believe him. I could still see the pair of dark arcs whenever I looked at the crook where my shoulder met my neck. "Lt. Smith, did something happen with Arthur?"

He only shook his head, "It is not my story to tell. I should prefer not to speak of him, if we might quit the topic."

"Certainly," I said. Something had happened. By the look of it, something quite bad.

"I am glad to see you have settled with Lord Norbert. I was sorry to hear of the dissolution of your engagement to Quentin Underhill."

"Yes, it did seem a good match, in some ways we were very well suited. But not in the ways that mattered most."

"The wife of a man of the cloth is not an easy position to fill," Lt. Smith said, knowingly.

"And I would have been a poor fit for it," I said, choosing to allow this falsehood to stand. Better that then the true reason that had once lay next to him on a riverbank in the sun, the first to die by my hand. Even now, my hand shook upon remembering that strange dance, the city lights reflected in empty eyes. Roger would tell me you never forget the first. I was certain that on my dying day I would still see those staring eyes.

"I'm only glad you both realized it before you married."

"Yes." My tone was distracted as my mind reached back into the past. "Yes, it was quite fortunate."

"So when did you and Lord Norbert come to be?"

"The next year. He came to shoot on my father's land and we became reacquainted."

"He is a good man. He was a friend to me even after my arrest."

"How has it fared with the Salvation Army in Worthing?"

"It's not as bad as it was. There are a number of businessmen and clergy who have taken to aiding our cause by marching with us. They wear white arm bands as though they are some kind of guard. But so long as they are there it does keep the Skeleton Army at bay."

"And Cadet Hartnett?"

"Captain Hartnett now. He's been married for three years. He moved on to the East End of London. We still correspond on occasion. He has a daughter, but at the moment I can't recall her name for the life of me."

"I was sorry to hear about Mr. Shaw."

"Yes, that was quite a blow."

"I wished I could have attended the funeral."

"I know. They were grateful for the basket you sent. It was good Russell was able to come. He's been so busy these days. It is the rare employer who will let a man off work for his grandfather's funeral." Quite rare indeed. In fact, it had taken a great deal of persuasion on my part to convince Granger to allow it. But we owed a great debt to Russell, and if allowing him to return home from France in any way paid a portion of that, I was glad to do it.

"When will you be returning to England?" I asked.

"Not before the first child arrives."

I stopped in my tracks. "Are they already expecting?"

George chuckled, shaking his head. "Not so far as I would know. But probably sooner rather than later. While I can't wholly make up for the lack of a mother to help with the early troubles that arise, I still do recall enough from raising Bertha that I might be of some assistance. In the meantime, the Salvation Army here has been more than happy to put me to work. You'll only be staying a few days, is that correct?"

"Yes, until Monday. Then we will board a train for Pittsburgh."

"You will have to be careful in Pittsburgh, there has been a lot of trouble there as of late. Strikes and rioting and violence - though I suppose you would consider that old hat by now. If you do find yourself in need of assistance we have a chapter there."

"Thank you, I shall keep that in mind. I don't anticipate much trouble. We will be staying with a Mr. Frick."

George's visage darkened, "Not Mr. Henry Clay Frick?"

"Yes, I do believe that is his name. Is there a problem?"

"While I do defend a man's right to have his business, I don't agree with how he has treated his workers in the matter of the strike."

"Why? What has happened?" I pressed, hoping for a better view of the national opinion on the issue.

"From what I have heard Carnegie Steel attempted to cut the worker's wages which led to the strike. Mr. Frick hired an army of Pinkerton guards to try to secure the works for non-Union laborers to come in and violence and rioting ensued. The newspapers reported ten had been killed. Frick has refused to make any concessions, instead evicting the families of the strikers from the company housing. Then, a few weeks ago some anarchist tried to murder Mr. Frick in his own office."

I gasped as though this were somehow shocking to me. "He never mentioned it!"

"I doubt he would. From the picture the press has painted of him he was back in the office only a week after the event occurred. He probably would not have wanted you to cancel your trip or worry about any potential investments in the company."

"Well, this certainly is worrisome! People being murdered in their own offices."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to trouble you."

"It is not your fault, I am thankful for the warning. You said the man who attacked him was an anarchist? Are you certain?"

"Yes. Berkman, I think the name was. It's been all over the papers."

"From Pittsburgh?"

"No, apparently he was a Russian working at an Ice Cream parlour in New York."

"New York you say? Why would New Yorkers be interested in the affairs of Pittsburgh?"

"America is a bit rougher than England, particularly in its industry. It seems the employees are constantly on the verge of all out war with the owners and the anarchists are only too happy to stir the pot."

"That is terrible!"

"It is, and I am sorry you must be going into it. Still, I pray that perhaps, like Esther, God has brought you to Pittsburgh for such a time as this."

"Thank you, George. Perhaps He has."

* * *

We arrived back at the little apartment at a quarter till five to a table set so full of piping hot plates that there was almost no space for our own.

"Oh good, you are just in time," Bertha said as she bustled about, laying the last of the silver. Millie's shyness toward her uncle had vanished in the space of our absence and she was now screaming merrily as he sat bouncing her on his knee.

Roger sidled up to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "How was your walk, darling?" he asked.

"It was quite pleasant." I kissed his cheek and whispered that no one else might hear, "I believe we will be making a detour in New York City."

Roger raised his brows but said nothing as we sat down to supper.

* * *

Supper accomplished, we lounged about the fire. George and Roger spoke endlessly of matters in Cumberland and the surrounding areas from the recent construction of a town hall in Barrow, to the drought in the Lake District, to the recent introduction of a small herd of red poll cattle onto our farm while Bertha set about to knitting and Chet to reading from a black book with gold leaf decoration surrounding the title of In Darkest England and the Way Out by General William Booth. After I had listened to George and my husband go on for almost half an hour I decided to seek more stimulating entertainment.

I sought out a book to read from the shelf on the mantle and was pleased to see, between Salvation Soldiery and a queersome looking novel titled Uncle Tom's Cabin, my old friend: The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. I gently removed it from the shelf recalling how the cloth cover had felt when first I had cradled it in my hand as a much younger woman. I could see the sitting area of the little brick house on Salisbury, the green wingbacked chair where George would read his paper, cup of tea sitting only half drunk and neglected beside him. I turned the novel over to see the dark prints set just below my own, uncommonly long, fingertips. But now there was another set. Larger, from the hand of a man. I wondered if Chet had ever read the work. Opening it, I could see signs of severe damage and the work of a skilled bookbinder to restore the piece to its proper form. I took the novel and returned to my chair. Millie slid from her father's lap, toddled across the room, and clambered up into my own. I wrapped her into my arms and began reading softly to her. It was not long before she was dozing in my arms as I absently stroked her silky black curls.

The clock on the wall chimed eight. Roger stretched, glancing over at Millie and I.

He smiled tenderly. "It's almost unbelievable she's asleep after already having a nap today," he whispered. "Normally, she'd be getting into anything she could reach."

"She's had a long day," Bertha said. "New city, new people, so many things to see and hear for the first time."

"Her first streetcar," I said.

"What must a streetcar look like when one is so small?" Bertha wondered aloud.

"I would think it must be very scary, it's so big and loud, but she wasn't scared at all. She's more shy around people than machines or animals."

"I'll put her down," Roger said with a yawn.

"Perhaps you might want to sleep yourself?" I suggested.

"Perhaps so. I can't recall ever being this tired after a day of travel."

"You are not as young as you once were, dear," I smiled provokingly.

"Do you mean to imply I am tired as a consequence of my getting old?"

"I mean to imply nothing. I am merely stating facts as I observe them."

I could see from the mischievous gleam in his eye Roger desperately wished to make a retort, but he stifled his tongue. Cleverness was not in the character of Lord Norbert. But I could tell the first opportunity we were alone he would gladly disabuse me of my theory.

"Are you going to bed?" he asked, instead.

"I think I might stay up and read for a while, if you don't mind."

"As you wish," he said, bundling up the sleeping child in his arms and carrying her off to bed.

"I believe I might turn in as well," George said, stretching his arms behind his head. "Lord Norbert may still have the luxury to protest the effects of age, but I am not so fortunate. It has been a long day and we have an early morning tomorrow."

"Oh, that is right!" Bertha exclaimed. "I had completely forgotten."

"What is it?" I asked.

"Saturday mornings we like to visit the hospitals," Bertha said. "There are many who are unable to attend Sunday services due to infirmity so we like to bring the good news to them. It can be an all day affair so we prefer to get an early start."

"They must be very glad of the company."

"Yes, but it does mean an early night. Jet?"

"I'll be in in a few minutes, Bertie," Chet answered.

"Goodnight then, Philomena, it is a pleasure to have you with us," Bertha said.

"Thank you, Bertha. It has been nice getting acquainted with you under more felicitous circumstances. Goodnight."

* * *

Almost half an hour had spent itself before Chet spoke the question I knew he had been dying to ask since our arrival.

"Has there been any word...?"

"Of Elizabeth?" I answered. "I'm afraid not."

"Nothing? Not from our friends or acquaintances?"

"There has been nothing," I lied. I desperately wished I could allay his grief with my knowledge, but it could not be risked. Elizabeth would return when she was ready and not a moment before.

He sunk his head into his hands causing little shock of sandy blond hair to sprout between his fingers. "I shouldn't have let her go. I should have made her stay. I wasn't in my right mind when I let her leave. And now... who knows what has become of her? She might be lying at the bottom of the sea. Dead and buried as a pauper in some unknown grave. Or in forced servitude in one of those opium dens made to do God knows what to men. Men like I used to be. Men like Arthur used to be."

It was the first I had heard Arthur's name spoken since I had arrived. He and Chet had once been almost closer than brothers, as though they were two halves of a whole. When Arthur had died I had been sure Chet would soon follow him - for how could one live without the other? - but he had not. He had put away Arthur's name and all recollection of him almost as soon as the final funeral dirge had been sung.

"Chet, what happened?"

Chet shook his head, causing the blond spikes to rustle like wheat in the wind.

"Chet," I repeated. "What did Arthur do? Why did Elizabeth leave?"

"It's wrong to speak ill of the dead."

"Even if it might help to find your sister?"

He drew his head up, his mouth opened and closed twice as though searching for the words to say.

I undid my scarf and the buttons of my collar, pulling down the side of it, reveling my neck. Chet was shocked by my display. I stepped close to my brother so the exposed flesh was only inches from his face, my fingers upon the ends of the arches.

"Do you see them?" I demanded.

"What do you mean by this?" Chet finally sputtered.

"Do you see them?"

"Yes! But what are they?"

I drew back, redoing my buttons. "Those are where he marked me."

Chet's eyes grew wide, then narrow with fury. "When?" he demanded.

"The night of his father's funeral."

"The- the night of..." Chet's face paled in revulsion.

I tied my scarf about my neck. "So you see, you cannot possibly alter my opinion of him, for it could not be lower."

"But you were engaged."

"All the better for him. He would not even be pressed to do the honorable thing."

Chet's flesh took on a green hue as he struggled to vomit up the next question. "Is that all he did?"

"It was all he was able to do. I grabbed a poker and threatened to run him through if he persisted."

"And that stopped him?"

"For the moment it did, but he said he would return."

Chet sat in stunned silence for a minute. Finally he spoke, "So that is why you left so suddenly. I always wondered. I knew you wouldn't leave father while he was still ill without reason. Why did you not tell us?"

"Would you have believed me if I had?"

"I would have believed the mark!" he protested.

"Even if he had told you it had been made with my consent? Or had been made in self-defense?"

Chet stared at his hands. "I don't know."

"I hope you know I don't blame you. It was Arthur. He casts a spell that holds a person so enthralled reason itself seems no more than the delicate gossamer of a spider's web to be easily brushed away by the wave of his hand."

"He is the devil himself," Chet murmured to his hands, though the phrase did not appear to come as revelation but as recitation of something being recalled from far back in his memory.

"Now tell me, what did he do?"

"He...," Chet swallowed audibly. "He hurt Bertie. And Elizabeth saw it."

I gasped.

"He convinced me they had been having an affair. I... I believed him. I dismissed her."

"So that is why..."

"Yes. That is why she hated me. That is why she ran away to Boston. That is why she slammed the door in my face. I don't know how she ever found it in her heart to forgive me."

"Because she loved you. More than you deserved."

"I know I didn't deserve it. That act of grace has taught me more about the love of God than any preacher or passage ever could."

"And Elizabeth?"

"She didn't tell me until after Artie's funeral. About Bertie. About other women... even during their marriage. He was her everything, I don't think she could even conceive of leaving him while he still lived. She blamed herself for it. For all of it."

"But it wasn't her fault."

"She couldn't see that. That is why she left. And I just let her go! And now I don't even know if she is dead or alive." He wiped his hands across his red rimmed eyes, drawing them back with water shining across the wrists.

I wrapped my arms around my brother's back. I could feel him quivering beneath my embrace. "I am sure she is alive."

"How can you be so certain?"

"I just know. You can feel when someone close to you has gone. Search you heart, you know she still lives."

"But in what state?!"

"We shall just have to trust her and take that she has not written to us for aid as a sign that she is doing well, wherever she might be."

"It is difficult to trust when I don't know where she is. When it's been this long without a single word."

"That is faith, Chet."

A slight smirk rose on his lips, "He can't leave me alone even in these moments. I never thought you would be the one to school me in matters of faith."

"You forget, I was your first teacher. Before Father decided my coddling would have a bad influence on you and separated us."

"That man." Chet said. There was a hollowness as he said the words; it was not as though they were devoid of affection but as though such affection had been torn to shreds and died and the wind of the words had blown through the pieces of its corpse. I had never heard Father referred to by any of us in that way. "I can hear him in my mind every day. Shoulders back. Stand up straight. Don't speak. My regard must be earned. Don't cry, emotions are weakness - you must never let yourself feel them too deeply. It is a drawing and not even a very good one, pride comes from excellence, you have no cause to feel it. You are a disgrace to the Moore family name. You will never be more than a disgrace."

I could remember the first time I had heard Father say that to Chet. He had not even been ten years old.

"What terrifies me most is the prospect that if I have children I might become to them what he was to me. To all of us. He ruined us Mina. He ruined all of us. Both of them did."

"Avery could still turn out. Father never showed much interest in him and now he is at Eaton," I said, returning to my seat.

"But what does it do to a boy to never have even been more than an afterthought to his father?"

"It is better than the alternative, I'm afraid."

"How are we supposed to raise our children with that as our only example?"

"I don't know. I suppose we just try not to do as they did."

"How do you do it?"

"Mother was never much interested in me, not as she was with Elizabeth, I was too homely and strange to be worth much investment. But still, sometimes I find myself saying something she had said doing something she had done to Emily. Little things that seem hardly of consequence. And I have to stop myself because I do not want Emily to turn out like Elizabeth. To be more concerned about how she presents herself to the world than her own well being. To find her worth in how others see her and their approval rather than in herself. I worry about it far more than you know. Far more than I would admit to even Roger. I don't think he can truly understand. He grew up knowing his parents truly loved him, not that their love was conditional based on his behavior."

"And that nothing he did would ever be enough."

I nodded.

Chet rested his arms upon his knees, his hands hanging limply in between. "How do I keep from turning into him?"

"Chet, I don't think you ever could turn into him. You are a better man than he ever could be. You had to destroy yourself with drink and drug to even come close to aping the man he wanted you to be."

"Thank you, Mina. That gives me some confidence. You know, as much as I have never particularly cared for Roger, I must admit, he is a very devoted father. I can see some now why you married him."

I had to glance away to keep from laughing aloud. "We should probably go to bed, it's getting late and no matter how tired Millie may be now, she will be up with the dawn."

Chet smiled, "Thank you, Mina."

"What for this time?"

"For giving me hope. Have a goodnight," he said, getting up from his seat.

"You too, Jet."


	4. Chapter 3

We indulged in my brother's hospitality until the following Tuesday despite our initial plan to remain a fortnight. The need to go to New York was simply too pressing a matter to be delayed. While the weekend was consumed with acts of charity and service, Jet and Bertha were able to allow themselves to be stolen away from their duties for just one day that we might take Millie to the shore at City Point. She was quite enthralled with the whole of it, from the street performers to the waves, which she chased and fled from in turn, giggling and shrieking when they caught her toes. Jet insisted we take a photo to commemorate the trip for he had no pictures of family but for a worn silver plate of Lt. Smith.

Roger had managed to excuse himself on Saturday from visiting the hospital and had instead used the time to avail himself of the local newspapers and magazines. It was there he was able to glean further information on Mr. Alexander Berkman. The case had achieved a certain degree of spectacle in the press not the least reason of which was due to the scandalous lifestyles these New York anarchists practiced. There was quite a bit of speculation regarding Berkman's relationship to a woman named Emma Goldman, who, from his reading, appeared to be quite the champion of the anarchist cause in New York. It was said she was Berkman's lover, though she, herself, seemed to falter on the exact nature of their relationship in interviews claiming at once to be only his friend and then, in another instance, to be his wife though only in the way an anarchist might have a wife, that is to say through carnal relations and not through law.

The night before we left I reread the article from the New York World as Roger prepared himself for bed.

"Well, what are your thoughts?" he asked, undoing his bowtie.

I pursed my lips, for the interview with Miss Goldman put to my mind many thoughts, few of which were complimentary. "She is an attention seeker."

"Obviously."

"Another Veena?" Roger.

"No. I believe she lacks Miss Ernst's psychosis, she merely wishes to feel important. There is a great difference in making a spectacle of yourself in front of a crowd and being willing to kill for a cause. In short, I believe she lacks the courage. We see it the moment she becomes uncomfortable with the questions: she reacts by insulting the journalist, becoming generally surly, and telling him to leave. Look how she plays coy about her relationship to Berkman, and this other man, Most. She wishes to be the center of attention, the example of the female anarchist, but she is all talk."

"That is a relief. I would prefer to avoid being shot by my own gun again if it could be helped." He removed his shirt. He might have hung it on the chair had I not wrapped my arm around his bare waist, leaning my head against the scar that ran across his side. He dropped the shirt to the floor and took me in his arms, pushing me back onto the bed beneath him. He laid a kiss on my lips.

I smiled up at him, "And I should prefer to avoid having to shoot you."

* * *

Our goodbyes were far too long with many a tear shed with promises that we would visit Lt. Smith upon his return to Worthing. I was sorry to have to slip the sepia toned photograph of our visit from the mantle into my bag as we left, but it was best there be no record of our visit. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that my brother and his wife might be found out by the agents of the Remnant. While the names of Moore and Smith might be of little note, common names as they were, to provide physical proof of their relation to us, right upon the mantle, would be criminally irresponsible. I could not risk my fondness for my brother to once more be exploited as weakness as my uncle had once done. My uncle had only threatened my brother's freedom, I had little doubt Du Beauchene would threaten far more.

We boarded the early train for New York City, Millie in tow. She was far too tired from the day before and the early morning to do anything more than ask a dozen questions before falling asleep with her head in my lap, her little feet pressed against Roger's thigh.

Roger brandished the article, "The interviewer indicates Miss Goldman frequents a saloon known as Zum Grosse Michel on Fifth Street, which he refers to as an Anarchist Drinking Den. Perhaps we might begin our investigation there."

"Perhaps," I replied tipping the corner of the article down that I might see it better. "however, I am more interested in this Mrs. Mollock or Pollak that the article says they were staying with. The writer states that he has seen the place where they live. At least, that might be inferred from his mention that the name on the bell is spelled Pollak. It might be better to gain the introduction through them; afterall, we will need a place to board and judging by this mention of her husband's arrest I imagine she will be in need of the money."

"Fair enough. Then we shall be going in wholly undercover?"

"Yes, I believe that would be best. They will be expecting spies. It would be better that our story be believable from the start."

"If they are expecting spies she may be less willing to talk," Roger said.

"No, I believe she is rather desperate to talk. We should be able to turn that to our advantage. With the proper persuasion it sounds as though she would be quite glad to tell us anything we wished to hear so long as she were part of it."

"And what do you believe that is?"

"Condensation, flattery. She must view us not as competitors, but as supplicants. Well, she must view you, I should say."

"Me?" Roger raised a brow.

"You speak Russian, I do not. It will put her at ease. She'll be more inclined to accept you as a countryman."

"Perhaps, but then, she speaks German as well - the article states a much."

"Yes, but I think she will be more likely to respond better to you, as a man, then myself."

"Now what leads you to that conclusion?"

"Because, if I speak to her, it is as a woman as she is. At best, she might consider me her equal, more likely, I am a threat to her dominance, as Mollock's wife is. Look at how she dismisses Mollock's wife when the reporter asks questions about her but is quite open to discuss the men she has consorted with. There is no glory in being spoken to by another woman; as much as she may preach that the two sexes are equal, I rather think she is not so egalitarian as she would like to believe. She wishes to be elevated beyond the level of common woman, and the only way that might be accomplished is through the condescension of a man. Particularly, an educated man of fine features, as you are."

Roger smiled at me, "So I am to be an educated man of fine features?"

"I doubt you could pretend otherwise no matter how you tried."

"I believe you underestimate me, Mrs. Norbert."

I raised my brows archly, "Do I? Perhaps you will have show me this unheralded talent of yours, sometime, Mr. Bond. I'm certain Granger would appreciate another agent who could blend in with the common man as Russell can."

Roger scowled slightly at the mention of Granger. "The last thing we need to give Granger is any hope of my return."

"I am certain at this moment he is already preparing his speech that will somehow entice you into your next assignment."

Roger sighed. "As am I. I quite look forward to thwarting his effort with that one little syllable."

"Yes." I supplied.

"No." Roger caught me with his dark eyes. "And nothing you or Granger might say will convince me otherwise."

"Oh, I shan't say anything. I am perfectly content to know you are home caring for Millie."

"I should hope so."

"Even if it does mean you are becoming soft," I shot him a mischievious glance.

"Becoming soft, am I?"

"Oh quite so." I laid a hand on his stomach which was not particularly soft at all. "You are becoming a proper gentleman farmer."

"You are fortunate we are on a train or I should be quick to correct your error."

"Now then, what should our story be?" I asked, quickly shifting the subject to one far less likely to excite temptation.

"Well, if I am to be a Russian possessing of a good education, it would probably be best if I were to be a Jew."

"Why a Jew?" I asked.

"A number of Jews were driven out of Russia after the assassination of the Czar."

I winced at the mention of the assassination of Czar Alexander II. The movement was not lost on Roger.

"You still have not forgotten, have you?"

"No. How does one ever forget such things? I wonder, had he known what the results of his actions would be, the suffering they caused, would he still have done them?"

Roger shook his head. "He would never have believed it. Even if he could be convinced I doubt he would have done a thing differently."

I absently rubbed the front of my neck. "No. I daresay he would not have."

Roger took my hand, drawing it away from that terrible memory to his lips. "He was a radical."

"But not all of his beliefs were bad."

"No, it is rare that all the beliefs a radical holds are bad, but it is how they act upon them that is."

I nodded. "I am sorry, sometimes the recollection still steals upon me like a shadow."

"I don't think it is something that you should feel needs to be forgotten. It is difficult, to be sure - I imagine far more so for you - but to try to forget is to disown that which brought you into my world."

"Nicholas." I spoke the dreaded name that still held such power over me. Even Du Beauchene did not affect me so as that of my first fiance. It had been so long since I had said it the word came out stilted, as though my tongue fought to stifle it even as the sounds were being pronounced.

"Is gone. And we are still here."

"We are." I stroked Millie's black hair from her face as she slept. "Now then, do continue."

"I am old enough that it would be believable that I was among them as an adult which would allow me to claim association with the nihilist movement without arousing suspicion. In fact, it would be quite a feather in Miss Goldman's hat to cultivate an acquaintance with one who had been there, as it were."

"And what am I to be?"

"Well, I shall not claim you as a simple anarchist wife, I worked too hard to win your favor to relegate you to anything as base as a lover - a wife gained through a single night of passion. You have no objection to playing the part of a German Jew?"

"No. I believe I learned enough from Rachael that I should be able to competently play the part."

"Rachael would not be the worst name."

"No. Every time you said my name I would see her poor hanging body." I said. "Perhaps Dinah? That is certainly Biblical."

"I must object, as much as I am fond of our friend it would be strange to call you by her name."

"Fond? You did attempt to marry her," I teased.

"All the more reason not to use it."

"Sarah would not be much better," I said, thinking of my secretary. "Perhaps Hannah? Or Lydia?"

"Hannah, would suit you best, I think."

"And what about you?"

"How does Jacob sound to you?"

"Like a liar who stole his brother's inheritance."

"Blessing, not inheritance." Roger corrected.

"Oh yes, true. He sold his inheritance for soup."

"And to think, you were almost a preacher's wife."

"I know, it's shameful."

Roger appeared thoughtful for a minute. "What do you think of Moskowitz as a surname?"

"I hate it."

"Moskowitz it is then."

"But I said I hated it," I protested.

"Exactly, so you will always hear it when it is said and respond properly," he smiled in that most infuriating way of his, indicating his full knowledge of his victory.

"We should send our trunks on to Pittsburgh, then. Well, excepting the one," I suggested.

The one that was most unlike all the others. It was old, practically ancient, with frayed canvas and chipped wood. It had been the first trunk my father had ever purchased when he was only a young upstart in the precious gem business and had served him well in its decades of service around the diamond mines of Africa. Were anyone ever to ask about its incongruence with the other, far newer trunks, they were informed it was an old family heirloom and then fed a tale of it being good luck or of our belief in frugality or something about the memory of a particular deceased relative - whatever struck us as amusing at the moment. It's real purpose was for circumstance such as this where even the luggage must be disguised. To the unsuspecting eye it would merely appear as though we had bought the trunk second-hand in an attempt to be as respectable as our limited funds would allow.

We arrived at Grand Central Depot and I was instantly dazzled by the sheer number of people and trains beneath the immense arched structure, making it somehow feel terribly cramped despite its grand size. It housed at least as many tracks as Kings Cross and each was lined with trains spewing black smoke. Conductors shouted into the crowds bustling past them. I instinctively grasped Millie closer to my chest. As we walked down the streets of New York I could not help but be struck by how similar it was to London and yet how entirely different, it were as though the the city of my memories were constantly trying to superimpose itself upon this brave new world alien to me and yet familiar. Roger wished to walk by way of the saloon, Zum Grossen Michel, mentioned in the article as the place the writer had found Miss Goldman. Unfortunately, in our travel weary state, we confused 5th Avenue for 5th Street and found ourselves completely lost at a park that was not supposed to be where it was. We were lucky to find a man who, by appearance, had nothing better to do than to help us find our way to 5th Street for nothing more than the conversation (though Roger insisted he take a twenty-five cent piece for his trouble despite the man's protests) explaining that in American cities Avenues ran one way and Streets ran the other.

"They should just give their streets proper names like civilized people," Roger groused as the stranger walked away, likely toward some other park where he might find better fortunes.

"Or perhaps you should pay more attention to the map," I teased.

"I believe I only own a partial share of the guilt in that. You were looking at it as well."

* * *

Despite the difficulties, we located the residence of Josephine Mollock on Chrystie Street by the late afternoon. The newsman had been correct, the name under the bell was, indeed, Pollak - I wondered if this were a precautionary measure taken against such attentions. I knocked the door while Roger stood behind, holding Millie's hand; all of us dressed in the nice, if rather shabby, clothes we packed for just such occasions.

We had decided, given the circumstances, she might respond better were she first presented with a female face - a man at the door might put her in the mind of police or reporters. A young woman answered the door, opening it only a crack that only half her face was visible, a child clinging to her skirts. She might have been attractive in other circumstances, but as it was her sallow face was lined with weariness and stress giving her cheeks a sunken appearance, only her eyes were bright as she surveyed us warily.

"Is this the house of Frank Mollock?" I asked in a thick German accent.

"Who wants to know?" she asked suspiciously.

"We are traveling to Pittsburgh from Boston to help with the cause. We were told perhaps you might be able to keep us for the week. We can pay."

"Who told you?"

"My husband's friend, a meester..."

"Mr. Peukert, Josef Peukert," Roger supplied, allowing a slight tint of the London accent upon his Russian.

"How do you know Mr. Peukert?" she asked.

"We met in London through my comrade Mr. Rinke."

Well, it was as good a name as any, I thought. It certainly was German.

Roger continued, "Mr. Rinke and I met after the - I am sorry, I am not knowing the English for it - Reichspressegesetz?"

Mrs. Mollock nodded, I could ascertain from her blank expression she had not the vaguest idea what the word meant.

"Mr. Peukert mentioned that dear friends of his lived here and would help us. A Miss Goldman?"

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Mollock said glancing this way and that as though to be certain no one had overheard. She waved us in. "Do come in. Quickly now."

We entered the modest dwelling, there was little of note to distinguish it but for a rather fine sketch resting in a crude frame upon the mantle.

"I must apologize, Miss Goldman doesn't live here any longer, but I can contact her on your behalf if you would like. I am Mrs. Josephine Mollock," Mrs. Mollock said, ushering us into what probably served as the sitting room. "Might I inquire as to your name?"

"Jacob Moskowitz." He was correct, the surname rung like the clang of a broken bell in my ear. "And this is my wife, Hannah, and our daughter."

"What is her name?"

We hadn't discussed Millie!

I saw just the scantest shadow of panic flit across Roger's face. At the age of two Millie responded to little else but her nickname and it would be impossible to teach her to answer to another so quickly.

"Millicent," I said, recalling one of the children of Gerizim whose name had sent a deep pang in my heart when I had first heard it called. "But we call her Millie. It makes the English more comfortable for they have similar names."

Mrs. Mollock nodded in understanding.

"Millie, this is Mrs. Mollock," I said, guiding Millie towards the woman.

Mrs. Mollock knelt and offered Millie her hand, "It is very nice to meet you, Millie. Would you like to meet my children?"

Millie, typically shy toward strangers smiled and took Mrs. Mollock's hand in both of hers and nodded vigorously. After almost a month she was probably glad to once more have contact with her own kind and Mrs. Mollock appeared glad to oblige, leading her to a room from which could be heard the sounds of playing children.

I approached the fireplace to have a better look at the drawing. It was quite a fine piece, almost of the level of a professional. In it were Mrs. Mollock, a man I assumed to be her husband standing beside her at her right, and next to them another couple. The woman was quite small with puffy hair, spectacle, a pretty, if otherwise unremarkable, face and a manner of dressing that brought to mind images of a schoolmarm. Her expression might have been called pleasant but there was a hint of something else in her eyes, a certain triumph and affection clearly meant for the artist doing the sketch. Behind her, a man, hand upon her shoulder and fawning look in his eyes as he gazed upon the woman. He, himself was not an especially attractive man. His face was long and lacked even the most basic symmetry. His ears protruded from the sides of his head, not in the jug-like way that brought a youthful look to a man, but at an odd angle only worsened by his spectacles. One of his eyelids drooped slightly from behind his glasses. His nose was quite long and his lips overly full. I recognized him instantly from the newspaper pictures as Frick's would-be assassin, Alexander Berkman. But the words beneath told a rather different tale. At the bottom, almost obscured by the frame were written the words: Frank, Peppie, Emma, and Sasha - Battery Park, NY June 6, 1892 - With love, Fedya

So this was Emma Goldman, so great and sinister in the article, yet hardly more than a girl. A child who, by expression, was prone to dramatic inclinations.

"This is quite a nice sketch," I remarked as Mrs. Mollock returned to the room, "Who is the artist?"

"Sasha's friend, Fedya."

"Does he live in the area? I would like him to do a portrait of Millie."

"I do apologize, but he is currently in Detroit."

"Where is Detroit? Is it far?" I asked, feigning ignorance.

"Yes, quite far. It is in Michigan."

That seemed a poor answer to my question. If I did not know Detroit - which was, at least, a large city - than what were the chances I would somehow know the location of Michigan? That would be as foolish as answering the question as to where Brighton was by saying it was in Sussex.

Roger must have seen the flash in my eyes to challenge the woman for he intervened, "That is a pity. Thank you. Perhaps when we come through again."

"Yes, perhaps by then he will have returned. Now where did you say you were from again?"

"We are from Boston, but I suppose you are meaning from where did we come to Boston from. I am from Russia and Hannah is from Austria, we met in London through the Socialist League. It was there that my friend Herr Rinke introduced me to Herr Peukert and we became part of his group, Fraktion. It was quite unfortunate what happened with Herr Reuss, but I cannot truly fault him for trusting a friend - it does only go to warn that there are spies everywhere and one must be particularly cautious." I was certain the irony of his words were not lost on Roger. "I do believe the split was coming, regardless, and I am glad of it for it allowed us to break free of Dave's Authoritarian beliefs. It is as though these men do not understand the true principles of anarchism and seek only to use it as a means to turn themselves into the oppressor."

"Yes," Mrs. Mollock agreed, following Roger's tale with rapt attention.

"We followed Peukert on his American tour and found Boston to be quite to our liking, or rather," Roger smiled fondly, "Millie found it quite to her liking, for she insisted upon being born there, which left us rather stuck for a time. And by the time we were able to leave we had grown so fond of it, we opted to stay and help the cause in America where the soil is far more fertile than the hard clay and dusty chalk of London."

Mrs. Mollock almost laughed at this characterization, covering her mouth with her hand to hide the smile. "Well," she said, "Let me show you to your room, you must be very tired after your journey."

She led us to a small room just off a narrow hallway. It was a homely place with only a sun-stained curtain covering a cracked window of such thin material it did nothing to stop the sun from streaming in onto the small bed with a cheap looking metal frame coated in white paint that had chipped off or turned a rusty orange in places. There was a an end table the appeared to double as a small dresser and a closet with no door, though the presence of hinges indicated it had once had one. "The washroom is down the hall."

"Thank you," I said. "It is more than we could have hoped for."

"Certainly. Anything for friends of the cause. I will send a letter to Emma to see if she is able to meet. I'm sure she'll be quite eager seeing as you are travelling to Pittsburgh."

"Because of the attendat?" Roger asked.

"Yes."

"Was she involved in it?" I asked. "The papers have claimed so but you know how reliable they can be on such matters."

Mrs. Mollock allowed a wry smile. "Yes. If Hearst could put every anarchist in America in Haymarket Square he would. Still, I think it best to let her tell it."

"Thank you, once more for all of your assistance. We should be quite lost without you," Roger said.

"Supper will be at five. I can watch your daughter until then, if you would like."

"Thank you so much," I said appreciatively.

"I know how difficult it can be to rest when there are children about," she said.

"Yes. It is. I will try to return the favor."

There was loud crash from the other room followed by a scream and loud sobbing. Mrs. Mollock rolled her eyes.

"Is something the matter?" I asked, alarmed.

"No, he just likes attention. I'll leave you to your rest," she said, shutting the door.

* * *

"That was quite a clever story you came up with," I said, opening our trunk next to the bed and removing my brushes.

"What do you mean?" Roger asked.

"About Rinke and Peukert," I said, removing my headscarf - it was not a true tichel, but was close enough not to arouse suspicion.

"I didn't make that up. Just what do you think I was doing in Austria before my supposed death?"

"I hadn't thought to ask."

"For someone who has likely envisioned my skeleton underneath my skin you are startlingly incurious about me."

"I was a bit preoccupied at the time."

"Given the symbol for the Kingdom of Munster was so similar to that of the Anarchists, they were, naturally, our primary suspects. I actually grew to know Mr. Peukert fairly well, I even submitted an article or two to his paper - under a pseudonym, of course. He fancied himself a good judge of character, but he was rubbish when it came to identifying spies."

I smiled. "I gather."

"Nice enough fellow. I was tempted to visit him when I heard he had relocated to London, but, being that I was dead, I thought better of it."

"It was probably for the best or you would most likely still be in London posing as an anarchist."

"Without doubt," he said, taking off his overcoat and hooking it on the metal headboard post.

"So what are your thoughts regarding Mrs. Mollock?" I asked, loosening my cinch and unbuttoning the top buttons of my blouse.

"She is hiding something."

"Well that much is obvious, but I wonder how much?"

"That I do not know. I imagine she will be more willing to speak if Miss Goldman gives us her approval," Roger said.

"Even then, her husband is still in prison, she may not want to take the risk."

"True."

I tossed myself onto the bed, lying on my back, and took out the folded article from my pocket, holding it above me so I might read it.

"What is an attendat?"

Roger loosened his tie as he spoke, "The propaganda of the deed. It is an act of violence carried out in order to inspire the masses to revolt. You see, anarchists are of the belief that the capitalists have built their empire upon the powder keg of the workers and that all that is required is one little spark and the entire system will go up in flames."

"And they intend to be that literal spark."

"Yes."

"They sound no better than common terrorists to me."

"Many of them are just that."

I turned over onto my stomach, article held out before me. "I think I should like to interview this Most fellow the journalist mentions. He was Goldman's former lover but it does not sound as though they are on amiable terms now. If anyone might be tempted to speak against Berkman in an attempt to revenge himself on Goldman it would be him. Particularly as she has only recently excoriated him in print. I imagine he is quite eager to set the record straight to any who might even suggest their existence. What do you know about him?"

Roger sat himself on the bed next to me. "He's a rather famous name in anarchist circles, though more infamous now. He wrote a book called Revolutionary War Science that outlines how one might go about making dynamite bombs. That was how I came to know it was not anarchists who were responsible for the bombings once I saw the bomb in Brighton. They hold Most's book to be something of a Bible for their attendats - they would not deviate so far into something so complex. They would want it to be identified with the Anarchist movement."

"And Du Beauchene would never allow his masterpieces to be mistaken for something so common."

I felt Roger's large hand rest on the small of my back.

"Most has a weakness for intelligent women, particularly those he feels he might mold into his own image. But it will be hard to obtain an interview with him - his fame has made he and his followers wary of spies. If you can get in to see him I am certain you will be able to persuade his tongue loose, though you must be cautious for fidelity has never been of great importance to him and, while I know you could easily dissuade him of such notions if pressed, it would bring more attention then I would wish."

"Perhaps a hypnotic for his drink, then?"

"Just be careful not to administer it to early..."

I smirked at him.

"I'm telling you how to do your job again aren't I?"

"Yes, you are," I teased him fondly.

"Being cooped up in Cumberland these past few years I forget how you've grown. You are hardly the ignorant and self-centered child I knew at Horton Kirby."

"I should certainly hope not."

"Sometimes it is hard for me to believe how good you are. I hear stories from Russell and Menning and I am in awe that this magnificent, brilliant woman could be my wife."

"How little you think of me." I said with a mock pout.

He placed his other hand on the bed, leaning upon it that his face hovered just above mine. "Not at all darling, not at all - just merely amazed at my good fortune. All you ever wanted for was experience and confidence."

I traced my fingers along the sinewy trunk of his arm. "I did learn from Britain's finest."

"And then you surpassed him."

I turned over to face my husband. "I doubt I could ever surpass you."

He bestowed a kiss upon my lips. "I daresay you have."

I smiled. "Perhaps in some ways. In others I could never hope to compete."

His face was so close to mine I could feel his warm breath diffuse across my cheeks as he whispered, "And in what ways are those?"

"I could never be half so arrogant."

A laugh burst from his mouth as he leaned back. "I should have known to expect as much from you."

"You would accept no less," I teased.

"You could drive a man to drink."

"Fortunately, you already possessed the habit."

"But Granger did not."

"No?" I propped myself up on my elbows, tilting my head slightly to the right. "I could swear he said he picked it up from his dealings with you."

Roger shook his head, still smiling. "If you continue in this manner I am not certain either of us should find any rest." He rested his body beside mine.

I frowned. "And we really do need to while we have this chance. Who knows when we will see it again?"

Roger slid his arm through the space below my back, drawing me to him. He kissed my brow. "Get some rest, Mina."

I snuggled my head beneath his chin. "I really could not ask for a better partner," I whispered, "and never a better husband than you, Roger." I felt his body tense as I said his name. He pulled me tighter into his embrace and soon sleep stole upon us.

* * *

A few hours later we found ourselves in an apartment of snoozing children, with Millie curled up in Mrs. Mollock's lap as the woman rocked slowly back and forth humming snippets of old English lullabies. Mrs. Mollock smiled, wearily.

"Did you have a good rest?" she asked.

"Yes. Thank you for watching Millie," I said.

"She's a delightful child. She knows so many English words!"

"We have tried hard to teach her. We want her to have all the advantages we have not," Roger said.

"It is difficult enough for a woman without having language as a hindrance," I added. Mrs. Mollock nodded knowingly.

"Mrs. Moscowitz?" That horrid name again.

"Yes?" I asked, brushing Millie's hair from her face, exposing her round cheek.

"I was wondering, would you be willing to watch the children while I go to the market? I won't be gone for more than an hour. Frank will not be home until supper." The way she asked, as though she were somehow intruding upon us my simply suggesting the idea caused a great lump of pity to well within me for this poor, harassed creature. I wondered if it this attitude were merely the result of Mr. Mollock's arrest and the subsequent questionings by police and reporters or if it went further back. Miss Goldman had not been interested in sparing her in her interview, perhaps that was not an uncommon situation.

"Of course! It is no trouble at all," I said.

"Thank you," Mrs. Mollock said, handing me my drowsing child. She hurriedly threw her shawl over her shoulders. "I will return soon."

"Mrs. Mollock," Roger said, just as the woman had reached the door.

She turned. There was that harassed look again, as if expecting to be struck. "Yes?"

"You may speak your native tongue. I will not be offended."

Relief visibly washed over her face. "Danke schoen, Herr Moskowitz," she said.

"Bitte," Roger replied. Mrs. Mollock positively shook as she nodded her head and walked out the door, closing it behind.

I turned to Roger. "I hadn't even noticed she was Austrian."

"You have too lately been there, the accent has become natural to you." He smiled. "You expect it."

"That seems strange to me, that I would become deaf to it. If anything I would think I would become more attuned to it."

"And so you will. By this time next year you will be able to detect even the faintest traces of it. But it has not even been a month. I would imagine at this moment it is the English accents that strike your ear most."

"I had not thought on it, but you are correct. Even on the train I could distinguish between the Londoner who had a slight hint of the Fens in his accent and the one from Executor."

"Millie seems fond of her."

"Thank the Lord for that. It would have been troublesome otherwise. She seems a nice enough woman," Roger said, absently, pulling back the edge of the cutain just enough to see the street below.

"I believe she is relieved to have the company."

"I can't even imagine the strain she must be under, her friends scattered or imprisoned, her private affairs published for the world to see, children to attend to, certainly the landlord could not be happy with the situation."

"And police watching the apartment." Roger let the curtain fall back into place.

"The landlord cannot be happy about that. How many?"

"Just the one, plainclothes. He's been pretending to read the newspaper since before we arrived."

"They still haven't bothered to replace him?" I peeked out the other side of the window at the large blond Irishman who was dressed just a shade too fine to blend in properly with the neighborhood. He glanced up at the window and shuffled the newspaper a few pages before once more pretending to read, glancing up twice more in rapid succession. I let the curtain drop. "Well, if he wasn't suspicious before, he certainly is now."

"He must think we're quite important if he chose to stay here instead of following Mrs. Mollock."

"Well, our timing could not be moreso. A Russian man and a German woman of unknown origin just happen to arrive only weeks after her lover is implicated in a terrible crime."

"Claiming to have been sent by someone whose name she would recognize as enough to allow us entry."

"Do you think he knew Peukert's name?"

"No, but he will certainly report it to someone who will."

"I feel badly bringing such trouble upon Mrs. Mollock."

"She already was in trouble. She, herself, would probably express relief that she is no longer experiencing it alone. This might very well be her first trip to the market without her shadow in weeks."

I peeked out the window again. "That poor man. It is terribly cruel of them to make him stand for so long." I smiled mischievously. "We should offer him some tea, or whatever it is they drink here in America."

"Don't you dare."

"You must admit, it would be amusing."

"I do not deny it. However, if he knew we had made him so quickly he would probably take that as an indication of our guilt - that we were actively looking for police officers."

"It really is his own fault for being so obvious about it. I wonder how we were expected to miss him? He'd be less conspicuous if he were wearing a uniform."

"True, then he would be expected - though maybe not in a place such as this. It is often observed that police function to protect the rich from the poor, not the poor from each other. That does remind me, I should have asked Mrs. Mollock to purchase a paper for me."

"We could always ask him for his," I suggested.

"You are wicked."

* * *

"I know how to make bombs!" I cried.

"Oh, and where did you learn such a thing? A book perhaps?"

It was a desperate gamble that he might know the sign, but one that must be taken. I only had this one chance to make an impression. I reached into my bag, pushing aside the notepad and pencil I kept in favor of a small pocket knife I often used for sharpening the writing utensil. I pulled it out and plunged it into the table, carving a large X. On the left side of the X I carved a small K, on the right a small M. I drew up to my full height and looked down upon the man imperiously, as though it were he who had the honor of the meeting and not myself. Most stared at the symbol, his eyes wide.

"What did you do to my table!" The proprietor cried from the bar, making to approach, but Most raised his hand to stop him.

"No. Leave us." Most said, waving him away. The proprietor moved to the other end of the bar where he contented himself to polish glasses and shoot contemptuous glances at me.

Most turned his suspicious gaze from the table to me. "Who are you?"

"Hannah Moskowitz." I answered.

"You know the meaning of this symbol?" He still seemed unable to believe what was before his eyes.

"It is the sword that shall conquer the world." The symbol of The Remnant of the Kingdom of Muenster.


	5. Chapter 4

A few hours later we found ourselves in an apartment of snoozing children, with Millie curled up in Mrs. Mollock's lap as the woman rocked slowly back and forth humming snippets of lullabies. Mrs. Mollock smiled, wearily.

"Did you have a good rest?" she asked.

"Yes. Thank you for watching Millie," I said.

"She's a delightful child. She knows so many English words!"

"We have tried hard to teach her. We want her to have all the advantages we have not," Roger said.

"It is difficult enough for a woman without having language as a hindrance," I added.

Mrs. Mollock nodded knowingly. "Mrs. Moscowitz?" That horrid name again.

"Yes?" I asked, brushing Millie's hair from her face, exposing her round cheek.

"I was wondering, would you be willing to watch the children while I go to the market? I won't be gone for more than an hour. Frank will not be home until supper." The way she asked, as though she were somehow intruding upon us my simply suggesting the idea caused a great lump of pity to well within me for this poor, harassed creature. I wondered if it this attitude were merely the result of Mr. Mollock's arrest and the subsequent questionings by police and reporters or if it went further back. Miss Goldman had not been interested in sparing her in her interview, perhaps that was not an uncommon situation.

"Of course! It is no trouble at all," I said.

"Thank you," Mrs. Mollock said, handing me my drowsing child. She hurriedly threw her shawl over her shoulders. "I will return soon."

"Mrs. Mollock," Roger said, just as the woman had reached the door.

She turned. There was that harassed look again, as if expecting to be struck. "Yes?"

"You may speak your native tongue. I will not be offended."

Relief visibly washed over her face. "Danke schoen, Herr Moskowitz," she said.

"Bitte," Roger replied. Mrs. Mollock positively shook as she nodded her head and walked out the door, closing it behind.

I turned to Roger. "I hadn't even noticed she was Austrian."

"You have too lately been there, the accent has become natural to you." He smiled. "You expect it."

"That seems strange to me, that I would become deaf to it. If anything I would think I would become more attuned to it."

"And so you will. By this time next year you will be able to detect even the faintest traces of it. But it has not even been a month. I would imagine at this moment it is the English accents that strike your ear most."

"I had not thought on it, but you are correct. Even on the train I could distinguish between the Londoner who had a slight hint of the Fens in his accent and the one from Executor." I rocked my child gently. "Millie seems to be fond of her."

"Thank the Lord for that. It would have been troublesome otherwise. She seems a nice enough woman," Roger said, absently, pulling back the edge of the curtain just enough to see the street below.

"I believe she is relieved to have the company. I can't even imagine the strain she must be under, her friends scattered or imprisoned, her private affairs published for the world to see, children to attend to-"

"And police watching the apartment." Roger let the curtain fall back into place.

"The landlord cannot be happy about that. How many?"

"Just the one, plainclothes. He's been pretending to read the newspaper since before we arrived."

"They still haven't bothered to replace him?" I peeked out the other side of the window at the large blond Irishman who was dressed just a shade too fine to blend in properly with the neighborhood. He glanced up at the window and shuffled the newspaper a few pages before once more pretending to read, glancing up twice more in rapid succession. I let the curtain drop. "Well, if he wasn't suspicious before, he certainly is now."

"He must think we're quite important if he chose to stay here instead of following Mrs. Mollock."

"Well, our timing could not be moreso. A Russian man and a German woman of unknown origin just happen to arrive only weeks after her lover is implicated in a terrible crime."

"Claiming to have been sent by someone whose name she would recognize as enough to allow us entry."

"Do you think he knew Peukert's name?"

"No, but he will certainly report it to someone who will," Roger said.

"I feel badly bringing such trouble upon Mrs. Mollock."

"She already was in trouble. She, herself, would probably express relief that she is no longer experiencing it alone. This might very well be her first trip to the market without her shadow in weeks."

I peeked out the window again. "That poor man. It is terribly cruel of them to make him stand for so long." I smiled mischievously. "We should offer him some tea, or whatever it is they drink here in America."

"Don't you dare."

"You must admit, it would be amusing."

"I do not deny it. However, if he knew we had made him so quickly he would probably take that as an indication of our guilt - that we were actively looking for police officers."

"It really is his own fault for being so obvious about it. I wonder how we were expected to miss him? He'd be less conspicuous if he were wearing a uniform."

"True, then he would be expected - though maybe not in a place such as this. It is often observed that police function to protect the rich from the poor, not the poor from each other. That does remind me, I should have asked Mrs. Mollock to purchase a paper for me."

"We could always ask him for his," I suggested.

"You are wicked."

"Do you think I should try to interview Most tonight or wait until you have spoken with Goldman?"

"That depends, how memorable do you intend to be?"

"Hopefully not at all, but I will do as much as is required to gain his attention."

"Just don't be too incendiary, I am certain Granger would prefer not to see us on another intercontinental watchlist."

"I'm taking the smoke bombs." I said firmly.

"I think Goldman first, then. They won't notice you as my wife, but once you are known to Most he may take offense to seeing you with Goldman and I want you with me."

"Naturally, but what shall we do with Millie? She cannot come with us."

"Mrs. Mollock might be willing to watch her."

"Yes, but I hate to leave her here. If something were to happen and we were discovered..."

"We won't be. Besides, they'll be less likely to suspect us if we are willing to leave Millie in the care of one of their members."

"Still, it makes me wish we had not brought her along. I didn't expect we would be abandoning her to the care of radicals when Granger proposed this case."

"Better here with us than at home with none to guard her but the staff against the demon deacon."

"Le Mauvais Moine," I said. "The evil monk."

"He could not help but take advantage of our absence."

I recalled another villain who had indulged such impulses; the murderer, Charles Chapman, who had been more that glad to reveal to Roger how he had visited my spy's sister at her home. Chapman had not done it to scare her (he had been quite friendly by her account) but to learn the lay of the land if he ever chose to act. To give Du Beauchene that opportunity while our daughter slept there without her parents' watchful eyes... it could not be allowed. "No, the temptation would have been too great," I agreed. "Mrs. Mollock will have to do."

Mrs. Mollock arrived half an hour later carrying a basket of food with a newspaper tucked under her arm. A child hanging from my arm, I watched from the window as the plainclothes police officer scanned her from behind his paper.

"It's terrible! Just terrible!" she said, not even bothering to use English as she strode through the door.

"What is?" I asked, scooping up the tyke.

"This!" She threw the paper on the table. "Of course they would deny it. They always do, do they not?"

I read upon the front page the caption in large, bold print: **Just Waiting: The Situation at Buffalo Still One of Suspense To-Day.** This was followed two headings down: _Wild Stories of Battles and Bloodshed in the Yards Denied But There's a sort of Guerilla Warfare that Requires the Troops to Stay_. I nodded in agreement, though I had only the vaguest idea what she might be on about.

She began roughly unpacking her basket, slamming the groceries on the table. I was thankful she had not bought eggs.

"They speak of the strikers as though they are the villains and the military these great heroes. And here the military are shooting at any man they believe might be with the Union but so far as General Doyle is concerned it's not happening at all. Those four men who died at the hands of the troops for the crime of simply wanting to be treated like human beings - well, he's never even heard of them!" She threw up her hands. She grabbed a knife and began chopping an onion very quickly with such force I could hear the blade of the knife hit the wooden cutting board.

"Momma?" one of the children asked.

"Not now, mausi," she said, dumping the chopped onions into a pot. She took a slice from a stick of butter and flicked it from her knife into the pot. "So far as the New York Central is concerned the Strike is practically over, Webb says." I could hear her wooden spoon banging against the sides of the pot as she spoke. "It's like he regards it as one big laugh. These are men's lives he is talking about! And he speaks of it like it is a bit of bad weather."

I picked up the paper. On the front page, hidden halfway down on the left I noticed another article, the name of the German city catching my eye: Cholera in Hamburg. That was near to where Russell was stationed. Hopefully Granger would know enough to move him.

"It is terrible," Roger echoed. "Men are no more than cigarettes to be burned and discarded to these capitalists."

"Jacob, look at this." I said, pointing to the article. I watched Roger's eyes move back and forth as they read.

He frowned. "Cholera."

"Yes. It must be bad for it to appear on the front page of the paper."

"Hopefully he saw the way things were going and left."

"Who?" Mrs. Mollock asked, innocently.

"Hannah has a brother who lives in Hamburg." Roger lied deftly.

"Oh dear, I pray he will be well."

"Thank you," I said. I turned from the table and the paper. I knew it showed on my face, the worry. I had known Russell almost a decade now, he was a competent spy, but still I could never forget him as the young grocer who could not speak a word for nerves when first I joined his family for supper. I could still see the look on his once cherubic face when first he had beheld me watching him struggle to remove his coat. He was in Hamburg because of me both directly and indirectly, it was on my orders he had been assigned to the port city. Sent to watch three men we knew to be associated with the Remnant: one of Du Beauchene's Lieutenants, a former Sanguinem Agnii member by the name of Dexter Klugman, and two lower ranking members who were no less dangerous. And yet he was now in far greater danger than I could have imagined. Cholera, that dread terror that could turn a healthy man into a wasted corpse in mere hours.

Roger took me by the arms from behind. "If it would ease your mind we can telegraph him."

"No, that won't be necessary," I said, but it was clear that was precisely what I wished to do. At what risk to our cover though? A telegraph to Germany would be prohibitively expensive to a pair of poor immigrants.

Roger wrapped me in an embrace. "Yes, it is." he said.

I turned my pensive face toward his. "But it is so expensive!"

"We'll make it work somehow. I will sell my ring if I must. So long as it might ease your mind." While the words were a complete lie for we easily had the funds, I could sense the emotion behind it was not - that he truly would give his last possession of value that I might attempt to contact Russell.

"Oh Jacob!" I cried, turning into his embrace. "Thank you!"

"We had best not waste any time. Where might the nearest telegraph office be?"

Mrs. Mollock was only too glad to provide us with directions, so moved was she by our display she even offered a few cents to help defray the cost though, in our feigned pride, we refused.

As we walked to the telegraph office I noticed something was amiss. I snaked my arm around Roger's pulling him close to me.

"We have a tail," I said under my breath.

Roger nodded. We turned down a side street at the end of which he planted a kiss on my head and peeled off to the right toward 5th street while I continued down the sidewalk. I heard the footsteps from behind turn to follow Roger as he led the man off. I glanced behind to see the familiar suit of the man who had been stationed outside the Mollocks' apartment. It was fortunate the detective, like so many others before, had assumed that it was Roger, as the man, who would be the most important person to follow - with the added enticement that Roger was the one of us heading toward the known anarchist dens. I turned left at the next side street and left again that I might return to the road I had began on.

I approached the Telegraph Office just as the bald, bespectacled clerk was hanging the sign to announce they were closed for the evening. The man caught my approach in that preternatural way that one does when they realize their assistance is about to be requested.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we're closed," he said tersely.

"Please sir," I said, "it is my brother." I allowed the tears I had until now been holding back at the thought of Russell Shaw lying dead amongst how many others in a mass grave in Germany, the thought of having to tell his grandmother that he had passed without even giving her the benefit of a body to bury.

The man's visage softened with a measure of sympathy that conveyed he understood the situation on some personal level. "Ok, but only for a minute to get the message out. We can't wait for a response." He turned the key to unlock the door and opened it, ushering me in.

"Oh thank you!" I said, clasping my hands together in the real gratitude I felt.

I gave him the address for Russell's private line.

"This is for Germany!" he exclaimed with some surprise.

"Yes. Don't worry, I can pay you."

"It's not a national address. I cannot guarantee we'll be able to get through."

"We will."

I dictated the letter which the man likely believed to be in German, though it was only the gibberish that hid our personal code - the code known only to Roger, Russell, the Underhills, Sarah, and myself. The message a simple one: _Leave Hamburg for regions that are free of cholera - M._

A part of me hoped there would be no answer, that the machine would remain silent, that I might hope that he had already left and was safe in some inn in the German countryside, perhaps with the Mennings in Coerde. As the seconds ticked by and the machine remained silent I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Alright," the clerk said, "you can come back tomorrow and I'll give you the response if there is one, though I don't imagine it will be delivered tonight."

Suddenly, the machine sprung to life, clicking out a code onto the ticker-tape. The clerk jumped back from it, clearly startled at the immediate response. He took the tape and handed it to me.

Upon it I read: _It doesn't matter. It's everywhere._

* * *

"I need to send another message!" I cried, rifling through my purse. "I'll pay you double the price!"

The clerk clearly was hesitant to accept.

"Triple." I pulled out a number of bills.

The clerk sighed, "Just this once."

"Thank you," I said. "It'll be faster if I do it this time, I hope you understand."

"Do you work in a telegraph office?"

"You might say that," I answered, nudging him aside. I began quickly tapping out a message to Granger. It was imperative we extract Russell before Hamburg declared a quarantine and he was trapped among the diseased and dying. It would be too late tonight, it was well past ten o'clock at night, the office would be closed. But in the morning they would be able to- The telegraph once more sprang to life, tapping out code. That would mean Granger was still in the office. Dread overwhelmed my heart, settling itself as a sickness in the pit of my stomach. Granger's message echoed through my mind as though from a distance.

 _It is too late. He is already ill._

 _When?_ I asked. The clerk showed no interest in even attempting to interrupt, knowing how I must look at this moment only a fool would have tried.

 _A few hours ago. I have him checking in every hour but I am not sure how long he will be able to maintain communications._

A few hours. So he was not afflicted with the worst of it, he could not be, for he was still alive.

 _Is there anything we might do?_

 _We are doing all we can right now. It is in God's hands. I will send you an update in the morning._

I drew back from the machine somehow defeated and spent in only the span of a few minutes. Come morning the message that might await me would convey that my dear friend had died during the night.

"What is it?" So the man was not entirely incurious. I suppose I would ask the same given the circumstances.

"Cholera."

He winced as though struck.

"I'll be expecting a message in the morning."

"Yes ma'am."

"What do I owe you?" I asked the clerk, distantly.

He shook his head. "Nothing. It's on the house."

It was an unnecessary kindness; and yet the gesture, the sympathy in the man's eyes, was a warm balm to the chill in my soul. I walked down the outdoor steps as one who was neither alive nor dead. All I could see was Russell's bright, open face. Nineteen. He had only been nineteen when I had met him, when I brought him into this world. He was just a child! And now he was twenty-seven. To die at twenty-seven. He was scarcely even a man, in some ways still the boy I had known. I had sent him. It was my order. He would die because of me.

I scarcely even registered the feel of Roger's embrace as he pulled me to him at the bottom of the steps.

"It is my fault!" I sobbed into his chest. "All my fault."

Roger said nothing, only held me as he stroked my back until finally my sobs had calmed enough that I might speak.

"Is he...?" Roger did not say the dread word.

"Not yet. But he is afflicted with it."

"He is young and strong, if anyone might pull through it is he. So long as he is alive, there is hope."

"I am sorry, but I just cannot bring myself to be hopeful at this moment. I feel so helpless!"

Roger clasped me tighter. "I know," he murmured, "I know. All we can do now is pray for his recovery."

"Granger will contact me tomorrow."

"Would you prefer I went instead?"

"No, it must be me. I should- I should prefer to go alone."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes." I gulped. "If the police see you with me they will become suspicious. They will think we are sending secret messages to our anarchist contacts, and if they speak with the clerk they will have no doubt there is an international conspiracy. We cannot risk being found out, not even for this. Russell would be furious." My lashes were dewy with tears, I blinked, sending them running down my cheeks.

"He'd say, 'Wot'd you go and do that for? Ruined the whole case over a bit of illness? Wotchu thinking, you goose?'" Roger imitated Russell's lowborn accent perfectly, even going so far as to flick my forehead just as Russell would. I could not help but smile in spite of myself. It was a manner of speaking Russell reserved only for his closest friends when he was finally able to relax with a cup of hot jasmine tea muddled with a bit of brandy - a hot toddy recipe of Roger's making that Russell was rather fond of (though I could never fathom why; likely less to do with the flavor than its creator who Russell had grown to idolize - all the more funny for Roger hated the combination which he had only concocted out of desperation). "He'll be alright. He's gotten out of worse spots than this."

The words did little to alleviate my worries, but, at least I had ceased weeping. For the moment, Russell was still alive, as Roger reminded me, and I should not act as though he were dead until such time as he was. There was still work to be done regardless of my personal trials. I must force myself to be distracted from the idea of his death. "It would be nice if he didn't keep recklessly charging into trouble. He should have left at the first signs of epidemic. It is not as though we can afford to lose him at this moment. I'd much prefer to lose track of Klugman."

"He's young still. You know how the young are."

"I believe you characterized me as an idiot."

"You still remember that?"

"I wonder how you could imagine I would forget. What were your exact words? 'I think you are eighteen and you are an idiot.'"

"That does sound familiar. I hope you will forgive me."

"For what? You were not wrong. I nearly was killed multiple times due to my foolish pride and recklessness. I very nearly cost us the war."

Roger cupped his chin in his hand, nodding, "You do make a compelling argument. I take back my apology. You were an idiot. Fortunately, you have gained some sense in the intervening years."

I pursed my lips irritably, lowering brow that I might glare at him with more menace. "You are fortunate we are in a public place."

"Am I? I think this is rather a grave misfortune."

I swatted at Roger who caught me about the waist, spinning me around before planting a kiss upon my lips. I looked into his still handsome face, only inches from my own, with its dashing grin and half closed eyes. "Oh yes. A very grave misfortune, indeed," I agreed. I pushed gently against his chest, extricating myself from him. "We should return to the Mollocks' place or they will wonder what we have been about."

"Yes," Roger said, his mien serious once more, "Mr. Mollock will be home soon and we cannot afford to miss him."


	6. Chapter 5

As we walked back to the apartment there was still one matter that was troubling me. "How did you evade the detective so quickly?" I asked Roger.

"Oh, it was surprisingly easy. I simply walked into a crowded bar, threw a wad of dollars in the air claiming I had just been promoted and drinks were on me, walked into the men's room and went through the window to the outside. Then I pulled myself up onto the fire escape and concealed myself there for good measure. He was so concerned with thinking I had gained so much distance on him he did not even bother to look up." Roger rubbed his midsection, "Though I did feel some pull at the scar."

"Roger, you know the doctor warned you not to exert yourself too much. You're liable to tear the muscle again."

"I know, but it is so wearying to be forever consigned to only taking ladders or staircases."

"Yes, but I would really rather you keep all of your organs in their place. You cannot rely on an American surgeon to be able to put you back together again. There is no sense in taking needless risks - you easily could have outrun him."

"Yes, but then it would have taken much longer for me to return, if ever I did at all. New York is not London, you know, I might be lost for a week."

"The way these roads are constructed," I muttered in agreement. "Everything looks the same."

"I will be quite relieved when I have my walking stick again."

Roger's walking stick had been a forty-fifth birthday present from Quentin, and, like most of Quentin's inventions, it could not be satisfied with being merely two things at once and thus possessed a myriad of different features including a full rifle and a set of bejeweled golden decorative stripes which were, respectively, a stiletto knife, a glass cutter, a scope for the rifle, and a compass with a hollowed portion just large enough for small messages. That the gold ball on the top of the walking stick with its intricately laced silver also functioned as a camera was merely rote by now. Unfortunately, it was far too fine a piece for the Moscowitz's and had gone on to meet us in Pittsburgh. It had been a stretch to bring my umbrella, but, being from a country where rain was often the order of the day, I felt rather naked without it.

* * *

We arrived home to be greeted by Mr. Frank Mollock who brought with him the news that Miss Goldman would be willing to meet on Thursday evening, if my husband was amenable to it. Roger requested he relay the message to Miss Goldman that this arrangement would be perfectly acceptable and that he was greatly honored that she would be willing to meet with him with so little notice. By the next afternoon we received a new message from Miss Goldman requesting that they might meet on Friday instead, as there was an event she felt it was imperative she attend. By the 2 o'clock edition of The World the reason why was readily apparent.

The fourth column regarded the cholera outbreak in Hamburg, I read the article voraciously, noticing none other but it. It appeared the outbreak was as bad as Russell had intimated, causing them to close entire sections of the city off for quarantine. Granger's message that morning had only increased my worries, conveying that Russell had stopped reporting sometime during the night and had not yet checked in. He admonished me not to worry, that it was likely Agent Shaw had merely fallen asleep and would soon send a message but in the two more times I returned to the telegraph office there was still no news of his situation.

As I read, Roger, who stood beside me, glanced over from his tea. Suddenly, the paper vanished from before my eyes, leaving my fingers holding nothing but air.

"Hannah, look at this!" He said, pointing the rim of his tea cup at the article with a sketch of a well-dressed man sporting a porkpie hat and a large mustache three columns over from the one I had just been reading.

"What is it, Jacob?"

He pulled the paper up, closer to his eye level (and further from mine). "Hugh O'Donnell's Mission," he read. "Hugh O'Donnell, the labor leader who achieved prominence at Homestead, PA., is in the city again, having been billed to speak at a workingmen's mass-meeting at Coopers Union tomorrow night in the interest of a fund for the relief of the Carnegie Mills locked-out steel workers."

I pulled the paper down to the table taking Roger with it so we were both bent over the article.

"In his speech at Cooper Union tomorrow night," I read aloud with increasing excitement, "he said, he would explain all about the Homestead strike, the causes that led up to it, the conflict with the Pinkertons, and the present status of affairs at Homestead."

"This must be the event Miss Goldman felt she needed to attend." Roger said.

"Undoubtedly. Jacob, we must go! Oh, but it is twenty-five cents for admission."

"It doesn't matter, lyubov moya, we can tighten our belts a bit. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity."

"Oh, how I wish we could go with you," Mrs. Mollock said. "Frank will be so disappointed. But we just don't have the money."

"Perhaps we might lend you some?" Roger suggested. I looked at him in alarm - who would watch Millie if she accompanied us?

Mrs. Mollock must've seen my expression for she quickly replied, "Oh no! It would be far too much. We could never ask such a thing. You need to save your money for the remainder of your journey. What if something terrible happens and you need a doctor? Besides, Frank must rise early for work, he could not attend so late an event anyhow. He'd tell you the same himself."

"What about you? You could take my place and tell him about it," Roger offered, I was fairly certain what her answer would be.

"No, I could never enjoy it knowing I was there and you were home in my stead. Besides, were Hannah and I to go, who would watch the children and cook Frank's supper?"

There was no sense in pointing out that Roger was perfectly capable of both caring for the children and serving supper; we wanted to appear as generous, not to convince her to actually come along.

"Still, I wish you could come with us," I said.

"It's ok, Emma will tell us all about it. Besides, they are predicting foul weather for tomorrow."

"Oh dear," I said, "I hope it comes early."

* * *

The weather, of course, did not come early. It arrived in the afternoon and remained well into the evening. Even between my umbrella and Roger's mackintosh the blowing rain had us soaked nearly to the skin by the time we arrived at Cooper Union Hall. I shook out my umbrella as Roger produced two quarters for the man at the entrance.

"Doesn't seem to be much of a crowd," Roger remarked, conversationally, to the man.

"Not with this foul weather," the gatekeeper replied, his gravelly northern accent obfuscating the words so that I could only just make them out. "Doesn't help he's charging so much. I know they need money, but it doesn't help to ask for it at the door and then ask for more."

I stood on tiptoes to peer over Roger's shoulder into the room. It was almost time for the meeting to start and still there were a number of empty chairs which only served to make the cavernous room appear all the emptier despite a sizable contingent at the front.

"Huey'll be disappointed, a'course, was hopin' for a real crowd. But he'll soldier on," the man continued. "Go ahead, sit anywhere you like."

We took our seats as near the front as we could find with two seat available. Roger stood, stretching and approached a man who appeared to be serving as an usher at the front of the stage. He asked the man a question. The man nodded his head and pointed toward the opposite wing. Roger crossed in front of the stage and disappeared behind the shining wood doors on the far side of the room. He returned a few minutes later down the aisle we had come in and resumed his seat beside mine.

"You see that woman, there?" Roger pointed to the second row where a woman in a hat tied with a pale blue scarf seemed to be trying to appear inconspicuous in the most conspicuous way possible.

I nodded.

"That's Emma Goldman," he whispered. "I believe she is attempting a disguise, but it is not particularly effective, it is clearly her."

A group of men walked up in a line from behind the stage led by a well dressed black man in a handsome, double breasted coat. Behind him followed a tall, black haired Irishman with a large, bushy mustache, I knew him instantly, based upon the illustration in the newspaper, to be Hugh O'Donnell. He had clearly once been handsome but now was wasted and thin, his large coat hanging off of a frame that it had once been fit for, dark circles gave a skeletal aspect to his sunken eyes. Despite this, he appeared young, almost painfully so to be in his position both as a labor leader and travelling the Eastern Seaboard seeking out funding, not even twenty-five years of age, probably. It seemed quite a lot of weight to put on those broad, thin shoulders. Three men followed behind him, all appearing quite serious of aspect. All sat down as one in in five chairs set in front of the red velvet curtain. Then the black man rose and took to the podium.

"Good Evening Ladies and Gentlemen. Thank you for braving the rain to come to our assembly today. My name is Frank J. Ferrell and I am the representative for District Assembly 49." He paused a moment for applause. "On behalf of District Assembly 49 of the Knights of Labor I wish to welcome you to our meeting. You have all heard of the terrible events which occurred at the Homestead Mill on July 6th when Pinkerton Detectives attempted to seize the mill by force from the hardworking men and women of Homestead. We have here today one of those brave men who repelled the Pinkerton's on the shore of the Monongahela at great personal risk to life and limb. Our guest here today stood in front of the Pinkerton barges and... well I suppose I should let him tell it." An appreciate chuckle rose from the crowd. "And now, without further delay, I present to you Chairman of the Advisory Committee of the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel Workers of Homestead, Pennsylvania, Mr. Hugh O'Donnell." Mr. Ferrell stepped aside and the tall young man rose and stepped forward to the podium. As ill as he appeared, I did not expect the clear, strong voice which flowed from his wan form.

He spoke clearly, with no pretense, weaving the tale of how it was understood that as the workers at the mill, the men were in a certain measure, co-owners of the mill through the social contract. The owners might provide the building but it was only a shell of dead metal parts without the workers' labor. He spoke how Mr. Frick had breached that contract time and again, now, most egregiously, by bringing in new machines and proposing to reduce wages to offset the machines' greater productivity. That this was only the latest in a series of affronts to the dignity of the steelworker that the Carnegie company was inflicting upon them. He told of the attempts to negotiate a deal with the Carnegie company and their intractability that led to the necessary decision that they must strike in order to protect their way of life. He spoke of Homestead and its people. That the were good, hardworking people who had carved out a community on the mountainous banks of a river with a name so strange I was certain I had misheard it. But all of this only served as preamble for what was the true focus of his passion. He described how, in the dead of the night two covered barges, filled to bursting with Pinkerton Agents attempted a midnight coup to steal the mill from the people.

He spoke of how the barges were spotted in the two 'o clock hour, floating down the river.

"We had hoped beyond all hoping that it wouldn't come to violence. Until that very moment when I heard the low whistle whining, announcing their approach, I had held out faith that Mr. Carnegie, who claimed to be a friend to the working man, would never allow such a thing to occur. Even though others told me that all robber barons were the same, I denied he might be one of them. And Mr. Carnegie was not even in town to see what he wrought. No he was in the highlands of Scotland - didn't have the stomach for it - had Mr. Frick do his dirty work for him."

He may have given Frick his title, but nothing in the way the name was spoken conveyed respect, rather it was spat out as though it were a curse. People in the crowd jeered loudly. He went on to describe how they had broken down the walls surrounding the mill that had come to be known as Ft. Frick that they might meet the Pinkertons on the landing dock, before they could make shore.

"There were not only men, but women and children in the crowd, brandishing whatever they might get their hands on to protect our mill from the invaders. Even old widow Finch took up her hand-billy, and strode forward to lead the charge crying, 'The dirty black sheep! Let me get at them!'" A few of the members of the audience laughed appreciatively at this image. "It was when we met them at the river bank we saw it was worse than we could have feared. It wasn't scabs, as we had believed. On the deck of the barge paced a man, taller than me and almost twice as wide in that telltale uniform of the Pinkerton Detective Agency." These words he pronounced with the same invective he had given to Frick. "Even in my wildest dreams I had never believed Mr. Frick capable of hiring Pinkertons, those mindless brutes who are employed to forcibly put the striking worker back in his place - or remove him from it, as the case may be. Up until that point I had believed he saw us with the dignity that God grants to every man, I was gravely mistaken. We were no more than cogs in his machine to be beaten back into place with a hammer."

"It was the women, strong women, the true wives of steelworkers, who broke the silence. They were not about to let Pinkertons take even a toehold in their town - and they made it known! From hurling words to hurling rocks, they made it known to the Pinkertons that there was not a one in Homestead who would grant them any peace. I admit, it was this display that warmed my heart and brought my courage back to me. I stood front and center on the shore, I could feel the guns of the Pinkertons trained upon me, but still, with the blood of the people of Homestead flowing through my veins, granting me courage I stood and I told them, 'On behalf of five thousand men, I beg of you to leave here at once. I don't know who you are or from whence you came, but I do know that you have no business here, and if you remain there will be more bloodshed. We, the workers in these mills, are peaceably inclined. We have not damaged any property, and we do not intend to. If you will send a committee with us, we will take them through the works, carefully explain to them the details of this trouble, and promise them a safe return to their boats.' I implored them in the name of God and humanity not to attempt to land, not to attempt to enter the works by force. But they would not listen!" He winced and shook his head slowly as if to dispel a particularly painful memory.

"The Pinkerton captain announced he would take the works and mow down every one of us. Bless the Homesteaders, not a one of them was swayed by his threat, if anything, it only cemented our determination to hold the mill. We had men on the Pmickey bridge and the opposite shore. We knew full well what Pinkertons were capable and were ready to meet them head on if that was what they chose. I told him, 'I have no more to say. What you do here is at the risk of many lives. Before you enter those mills, you will trample over the bodies of three thousand honest workingmen." It was then Will Foy stepped forward with Joe Sotak, Martin Murray, and Anthony Soulier and a few others whose names I will not mention given the ongoing persecution we are seeing from the local authorities." The manner inwhich he said this revealed a clear distaste for those he mentioned.

"The Pinkerton captain told us that regardless, he had three hundred men and they were coming ashore. That was when Will shouted back, 'Come on, and you'll come over my carcass!" And, in an act of bravery rarely seen, he threw himself, belly-down, onto the gangplank, revolver cocked, daring them to make a move - he didn't mean to shoot them, but he certainly wasn't going to make it easy for them. The Pinkerton captain didn't even hesitate. He took his billy-club and slashed Will across the head with it. Without a moment's thought to Will's welfare, he ordered his men to make landfall. They scrabbled up the banks like a bunch of rats, with the captain the worst of the lot, slashing out at anyone within reaching distance like a man possessed without care of whether it were woman of man or child who fell in range of his evil club. And it was not just a billy club he used but an oar as well, knocking one of our men senseless with it. One of our brave men, an Eastern European - I say that to give the race their due for they are often maligned but they fought courageously by our side, rushed forward and, without fear for his own safety, knocked the Pinkerton captain off of his feet with a club. It was then two shots rang out. It was Will who was the first hit, but even as his blood mingled with the river he refused to move. Then the Pinkerton captain went down, bleeding from the leg. He crawled like a coward to the barge, aided by his men."

I couldn't help but feel stirred by the story of William Foy's stand. I did not even realize I was leaning forward in my seat until Roger placed his hand upon my back, bringing me back to myself.

"The Pinkertons opened fire upon us, sending volley after volley into the crowd. Need I remind you once again, it was not just men but women with babes at the breast and children whom they fired upon. We fought back with all that we had. A bullet grazed my hand. I was lucky. I was at the front where better men than me fell. Nine were badly injured. One, Anthony Soulier was killed outright in the first salvo. But it was nothing compared to the terrible sight I witnessed upon the shore. Martin Murray was shot down. Seeing Martin lying there on the shore, bleeding, Joe Sotak, leader of the East European steelworkers, rushed to his aid. While Joe was in the very act of picking up the wounded Mr. Murray those lousy Pinkertons shot him dead."

A few members of the crowd gasped.

O'Donnell stopped for a moment, apparently overcome by the memory of the scene, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket he dabbed his eyes. "My friend, George Rutter, a veteran who fought for the Union." He emphasized the word Union and a number of people clapped.

Roger whispered to me, "The Union represented the Northern side in the Civil War."

"I knew that," I scolded, pushing him away. Or, at least, I had known it once upon a time. It was difficult enough to keep track of the factions in Britain's own wars, let alone those in other countries. Particularly those wars almost thirty years past.

"Just making certain." He shrugged with a self-satisfied smirk which conveyed he knew perfectly well I had not.

I returned my attention back to O'Donnell, "He was wounded at the Battle of Gettysburg but he died in the Battle of Homestead!"

Cries of outrage met this pronouncement. ODonnell continued, describing the retreat into the works, the ensuing shoot-out. He described the Pinkerton's attempts again to land and the grueling standoff lasting for hours on end. He spoke with passion for his fellow workers who had become comrades-at-arms as the battle continued, enumerating the dead with stories about each. The twenty-eight year old Welshman, John Morris, beloved husband, father, and friend to all, who was shot through the head - O'Donnell described his sixty foot fall from the pumphouse into a ditch and the horror of his mangled body. He described the procession to the man's house, the near indescribable grief of Morris's wife and children - the recollection of which forced him to pause once again. Henry Striegel, a mere boy of nineteen, shot through the neck by a Pinkerton bullet. Silas Wain, an English immigrant who died in his brother's arms and how his fiance, only weeks from becoming his wife, collapsed at the word of his death, remaining in a state of insensible delirium for hours.

I thought of Dinah when I heard this. How she must have felt when she learned of her fiance, the true James Bond's, death. I recalled how hysterical she had been when Quentin had denied her her petition to marry Heinrich Menning before he was sent to his death. How would I have felt had Roger not survived his injury? The shot itself was not lethal but any number of complications could have occurred that would have easily ended his life. I wrapped my hand around Roger's forearm, squeezing it tightly. He placed his own hand upon mine, patting it gently as though he knew what I were thinking.

The worst tale of all was that of Peter Fares, a pious Slovak man, who came to the millworks with only a loaf of bread in his hand to share with his brother steelworkers. A sharpshooter blew the upper half of his head off. His body was borne home to his brother in the tender arms of his co-workers.

He spoke of Frick attempting to mobilize the militia, of the growing pressure to resolve the matter of the Pinkertons before the militia could arrive; for if there were any Pinkertons left they would be given control of the mills and that was beyond tolerance. At least the militia, being Pennsylvania men themselves, might be persuaded to the cause of the Homesteaders; and even were they not to be persuaded, they would still be from Pennsylvania, not the lawless mercenaries from God only knew where the the men shooting at the Homesteaders were. If the mill must fall out of the possession of the workers, then at least let it be held by Pennsylvanians! And beyond that, were the militia to arrive before the Pinkerton matter were decided, it was possible the Pinkertons would be allowed to leave without facing justice for the innocent blood they had spilt of men only trying to defend their property. But thankfully Governor Pattison was sympathetic to their plight and delayed dispatching the militia.

"Finally, after many hours Mr. William Weihe, the national president of the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel Workers, himself, arrived to convince us to allow the Pinkertons to be on their way. I took an American flag from the reinforcement who had come to our aid from the South Side ironworks and, climbing on a pile of steel beams I requested silence that the people might hear President Weihe's proposal. It is a fine thing to see hundreds of men remove their hats in reverence to the flag." He was playing up the strikers' patriotism, I suspected to make it clear that this was not meant to be some form of insurrection but rather the actions of true Americans against something that was wholly unamerican. The Pinkertons were lawless, Frick a worshipper of mammon, and they, the union, were the last line of defense for the American people. They were the true Americans who more than life their brethren and country loved. They were fighting for all workers, not just for themselves. At least, this was the portrait O'Donnell was striving to paint, and executing his art admirably.

"But with seven men dead this was not enough to satisfy the consciences of the men who had held off the invaders for over twelve hours. It was then a man, I will not name him that he may not fall prey to the corrupting hands of money and politics, stated that we would hold them in their boats until Sheriff McCleary came with warrants for each and every one of the Pinkertons that they would be charged with murder and taken to the jail to await trial. I wish I could tell you that this is what happened, that , for once, it was God that was served by the government and not mammon. I wish I could say the Pinkertons were held for trial and that Mr. Henry Clay Frick, Mr. Lovejoy, and Mr. Corey were all tried for murder - certainly we tried! Hugh Ross of the Amalgamated Association had murder charges filed against them, but by then the Pinkertons had largely disappeared, not doubt back into the cracks they had crawled out of. The charges against Misters Frick, Lovejoy, and Corey were not even seen as fit to print in the Pittsburgh Dispatch, though I hear your papers did the thing justice. Now, I will not pretend I am not a man of sympathy, that perhaps between the attempt at Mr. Frick's life and the death of his infant son the paper felt it was distasteful to print the news - but that does not strike me as likely. I am certain when they come for me," there was a cry of assurance from the crowd but O'Donnell brushed it off, "I wish it were as unthinkable as you say, but I assure you, I can already feel the invisible hand of capitalism closing its fingers upon us." I could tell from the harassed, hunted look in his eyes he was well aware of movements we, as yet, were not.

"I know I am just a humble heater, never in my wildest dreams would I aspire to be speaking before you all tonight as though I could demand any respect from you for my own rank or position. But it is the earned value of each and every one of those Homesteaders, of those Pittsburghers, who stood on the bank that day in the face of three hundred armed men and declared, if not in word than in deed, 'These are our works. We will not be moved.' I urge you all now to donate whatever you can spare to help our cause. It has been months since the strike began. Some of you have heard that I have been speaking with Boss Chris Magee at Mr. Milholland's house, we have been trying to negotiate an end to this strike, but Mr. Frick will not be budged and Mr. Carnegie has hidden himself away in Scotland, unwilling to intervene on behalf of his own workers while we starve. I do not need to tell you I have wrecked myself for this cause, for you can plainly see it with your own eyes. I have been to Toronto, Buffalo, Syracuse, Lockport, Utica, Albany, and Boston to raise support for our cause. It is the combined capitalists of this country who have conspired to defeat the men at Homestead and to dispatch their leaders to the gallows. It must be the combined support of the common man that defeats them! I thank you for your time." He gave a slight bow that caused the whole front of his suit to shift forward, emphasizing once more, the weight he had lost.

The remainder of the meeting passed with little to note in the speeches from the other men; even the journalists who had clearly been sent to cover the event allowed their pens to rest. Each man exhorted us to give generously to those poor souls in Homestead fighting for the rights, the very dignity of the common man. As the collection went around Roger dropped a twenty dollar bill in.

"Jacob!" I hissed.

"It is no matter. See, no one has noticed."

"But they might have!"

He allowed a small huff of a laugh, "You still believe people really pay as much attention to the poor as they do the rich. Besides, he has come all this way to provide us with information, the least we could do is pay for his services."

"That is true, and I do certainly feel sorry for the man. He looks like he might fall where he stands." I nodded my head. "I think we truly do need to speak with Goldman." There was something in what Mr. O'Donnell says that made me question this Carnegie's motive. By O'Donnell's words it sounds as though Carnegie were entirely complicit - and were that the case it would be better to have Frick alive to absorb the public ire, not dead.

"I agree."

The meeting was quickly put to an end and the speakers descended the stairs where audience members waited to speak to them. O'Donnell, in particular, found himself the center of a mob of people with whom he was valiantly attempting to placate with handshakes and quick answers.

"I wish we could speak with Mr. O'Donnell, I have so many questions." It was a pity, but it would not do to risk recognition were further undercover activities required in Pittsburgh.

"You aren't the only one." Roger pointed to the woman with the blue scarf who had just approached O'Donnell. He shook her hand with a smile but as she spoke his expression immediately hardened. I could not tell what he said, only that the words were sharp and terse and had the effect of fully rebuffing Miss Goldman. He turned and fairly swam through the teaming people about him to the doors.

"That was interesting," Roger remarked.

"Indeed." I agreed with brows raised.


	7. Chapter 6

I sat in a dining chair turned toward the window, sipping from a long cold cup of tea, watching the rain drops collide with the black pane, streetlights from below causing the water droplets to take on the sheen of ice. The window was open only an inch in an attempt to mitigate the stifling late August heat, allowing little pools of water to form along the sill.

"Would you like another cup of tea before bed?" Mrs. Mollock asked.

"Yes, please," I said gratefully.

Roger had already gone off to bed with Millie, but my mind was far too restless for sleep. It was easy, during the day, to distract myself, but in the dark of the night visions of Russell's grave haunted me.

Mrs. Mollock handed me a new cup of tea, pulled up a chair, and sat down at my side, sipping from her own steaming cup. We sat watching the rain in silence for some minutes.

"A penny for your thoughts," she said. The English words jarred me.

"I'm sorry?"

"It is a phrase people are fond of saying here. A penny for your thoughts. It means: what are you thinking?"

"It is not important," I said

"For you to look so, it must be very important to you. Your brother?"

"Yes. I have had no contact from him for a week. Last I heard he was... he was ill."

"With cholera?"

I nodded, taking a sip of tea that I might not be expected to answer immediately.

"I remember when my husband and I came over from Austria. Well, he was my husband at the time, before I knew I was worth more than the value he gave to me. When we first arrived I often heard of illness or trouble in my home country I would worry myself sick, still when I hear of trouble in Vienna it pains me to be so far."

"I do not mean to be rude in asking, but you mean to say you had another husband before Mr. Mollock?" It had been mentioned in the article that her relationship with Frank Mollock was of a scandalous nature but I was curious to know more of the details.

"Yes. It is ok, I am not embarrassed. Seven years ago I married a man named August Kertschall. I suppose I was young and did not think there anything amiss in the way he treated me. Many women I knew were treated the same by their husbands, so it wasn't as though I expected anything different. When he decided we were moving to America not long after, that is what we did. We moved to Massachusetts, like you and Jacob, but it did not go well for us and he became mean. You could say it was Emma who saved me."

"How do you mean?"

"I had always held an interest in the anarchists, your husband, I am certain, has told you many tales of the Vienna movement. I remember the first time I read an issue of Die Autonomie. I was in a cafe when a man got up from a table next to mine and left his paper behind. The service was slow and I was bored, so I picked it up and read it. I could not put it down. I do not recall what I ate but I can still see myself reading the words as I ate, mesmerized by Herr Peukert's glorious gospel of humanitarianism. Whenever I could I tried to get away from work and read or go to meetings but that was almost never. I did see some meetings at a distance, through a window - I think I may have even seen your husband there once or twice with Herr Peukert. I did not recognize him but now I am almost certain of it. But he was younger then."

"Were not we all?" I smirked and sipped my tea signalling that she should continue.

"I tried to convince August to join when we came to America but he was not so enthusiastic. We did attend a few meetings though. There was a meeting in New London where I first watched Emma speak. I had never before thought that as a woman I might have value beyond my labor - that toil at the factory and in the household was not all that might be my lot in life. She showed me there was more, far more to a woman's worth than her ability to make babies. I wrote to her to tell her how she had inspired me and I cannot tell you how it felt when I reached into the mailbox and there was a letter addressed not to August, but to me, from Emma Goldman!"

From the shining of her eyes I could tell the memory still held great import to her, as though it were the single most significant moment of her life. Judging by the trajectory her life had taken since then, likely it was.

"I never in my life thought she might write back. She told me so many things, opened my eyes. She helped me to understand it was an archaic system that kept women bound to their husbands based not on women's weaknesses but men's fear of women's strength. She taught me that my thoughts and opinions had value regardless of what my husband might say. We wrote for a few years but only rarely did I ever get to see her until August moved us to New York. A year ago we had our final fight, and, inspired by Emma's strength, I found the courage to leave him and take back what was mine. I returned to being Josephine Pollak, instead of a mere possession of Herr August Kertschall."

I nodded. So that was why the article and the address named her as Pollak.

"I want them out!" a shout from below caused me to jolt forward in alarm to see what the trouble was. From the window I could see an unpleasant looking man gesturing irately to a tall, slender man with a large mustache underneath his prominent nose wearing a fine uniform that did not wholly disguise his wooden leg, his head largely obscured by an umbrella. The uniform was not quite like those I had seen before, it was more decorated, as though to note the higher rank of the wearer. Mrs. Mollock blanched at the sight of him, ducking below the sill that only the very top of her head could be seen.

"Get down!" she hissed, grabbing my hand and pulling me down, causing my tea to spill out of its cup.

"What is it?"

"It's Police Commissioner Sheehan," she whispered. "Oh why won't he leave us alone!"

"This is not some waystation for anarchists. I want them gone!"

"Who is he?" I asked, peeking over the sill at the scrawny, sickly looking balding man who had just shouted.

"He's our landlord."

"Just one more week." Sheehan said, attempting to calm the other man. "If Aronstam hasn't returned by then you may chuck them out at your pleasure."

"I have never seen this Aronstam here. He is not coming now that his whore, Goldman, is gone."

"Just one more week. And what about these other two that have taken up with Mr. Mollock, what do you know about them?"

"Other two?!" the landlord practically shouted.

"Calm down," Sheehan said.

"Calm down! Calm down!" the landlord was practically shrieking. "I have anarchists coming in and out of my building at all hours, I have police detectives watching my buildings - they published the address of my apartments in the newspaper! Who will want to rent a room in an anarchists nest! The place which gave aid and comfort to an attempted murderer! And now you tell me there a two more! They are like rats! Like cockroaches! Kill one and two more take its place.

Wrapping his long arm about the landlord so that both faces were now concealed by the commissioners's umbrella, Sheehan spoke in a tone that was low yet warning. "We don't need you alerting them that I'm here." This seemed to shut the man up. "Now then, I would like you to keep an eye on these two."

"What is your interest in them?"

"The man shook off one of our detectives a few days ago. We've only seen him go out once since then, but the woman, who may be his wife, has made a number trips into the city, yet she has proven difficult to tail as well. They're slippery as eels they are. There's something about the pair of them I don't like."

"So what do you want me to do about it?"

"Just keep an eye on their comings and goings, maybe have a surprise inspection."

"I'll say the other tenants have been complaining about rats." He chuckled unpleasantly. "It won't be a lie."

"Good man. Report to us anything that you find. The last thing we need in this city is another repeat of what happened to Frick to happen to Rockefeller or Morgan. Or worse, Tweed. We've worked too hard to worry about losing everything now."

"You really think they could be assassins?" the landlord's watery eyes glistened with a certain excitement. He should be glad we weren't or I would certainly be happy to show him that playing spy was not nearly so glamourous as he seemed to think it would be.

"I don't know, and I certainly do not want to take any chances. These anarchists are a dangerous lot, they'd just as soon shoot you as blow up a city block."

"Just remember, one week," the landlord hissed.

"One week, on my word," the commissioner confirmed, releasing the landlord who had somehow managed to grow uglier and more rat-like in aspect since I had first seen him. "If you need anything Det. Murtagh will be around." Sheehan glanced up at the building and nodded his head as though personally assured of his plot and then turned and walked off.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Mollock said, rushing over to the mantle when the coast was clear. She took the sketch and hugged it against her breast. "Oh dear. Oh dear. I can't let him see this."

"Why not?"

"He'll take it, I know he will."

"It's just a sketch why would he want it?"

"Can I trust you with a secret?"

"Of course! Why would you even have to ask?"

"This man, this man here," she pointed to the man identified as Sasha who I knew to be Berkman, "his name is Alexander Berkman, Sasha is only a name we gave him. He did something... something they would call terrible."

"What did he do?"

"He tried to kill Henry Clay Frick."

"Him? He is the Alexander Berkman? The one who has been in all of the papers?"

"Yes. I am so sorry, I should have told you."

"Don't trouble yourself over it, we were strangers and you took us in. We can only be grateful."

"But the man, the one he called Aronstam, he is the man who drew the sketch. If they find it then they will know the name we call him and they can use it to deceive Sasha into a correspondence. Or worse. To use Sasha to find Fedya's hiding place."

My hands flew to my mouth in feign surprise, "You said he was in Detroit."

"Yes, but no one knows but for us and Emma. We've tried to send him some money but the post is being watched."

"Do you truly think Sasha could be convinced with such a ploy?" I intentionally switched to Berkman's nom de guerre to better help Mrs. Mollock to believe we truly were allies.

She shook her head. "I don't know, I just don't know anymore. Sasha is so desperate to hear from his cousin - they were inseparable, practically twins. That is what they call themselves, the twins. They share almost everything." Including, apparently, the same woman if the landlord were to be believed. "He might let his guard down. And I would not put anything past the police with their horrible superintendent. When Frank was arrested O'Mara even put a German speaking officer in the cell next to Frank's to listen in to my conversation with him. The conversations between a man and his wife should not be privy to the ears of any interloper! It was a wicked thing he had done and then he bragged about it to the paper hoping to shake a few of our friends into thinking perhaps more had been overheard than was said. But Emma knew us, knew even then we would not say anything of importance."

"Frank was arrested? Why?"

"He had paid back a loan he owed Sasha. That was all. Only eight dollars. And they accused him of being part of the plot to assassinate Frick. It was not his fault how Sasha chose to spend the money." Tear threatened to overflow Mrs. Mollock's eyes. "They held Frank in custody for an entire week right after the attempt, sending him from New Jersey to Philadelphia to Pittsburgh and back again when they were through. I was a horrible time. I did not know whether I would ever see him again. You know how they trump up charges in these cases. Anyone who is an anarchist is instantly guilty by association."

"Did he know what Sasha was going to use the money for?"

Mrs. Mollock shook her head. "I don't know. I'm sure he suspected. But even if he knew full well I would not fault him for giving Sasha the money. Every one of those ten men killed at Homestead is on Frick's head. Even the Pinkertons. They would not have even been there if he hadn't sent them. All of those injured, all of those poor widows and fatherless children - each and every one of them is on Frick's head. And he feels no guilt in the matter. He blames the workers for protecting their mill from invasion. To watch a mother bury her son, to watch a wife with child at her breast bury her husband and to blame those men for their own deaths - He is inhuman!"

So he had likely known. I wondered to what extent. Had he known the supplier of Berkman's dynamite? Perhaps that wasn't wholly relevant given that it had failed but I still would not mind knowing who it was. Perhaps I might have Roger feign interest in a similar attempt to pique Mollock's interest. But then, it seemed they had been through quite enough. Even if Roger might broach the subject there was no assurance that Mollock would have the stomach for another attendat given how close he had only just come to losing his liberty.

"A week," she sighed, looking at the picture again. "At least we know."

I laid a hand on her shoulder. "I am so sorry."

"It's ok, really it is. We knew it was coming, we just did not know quite when. I wondered why he had only insisted on Emma leaving. I suppose now we know." She looked at the sketch again. "Perhaps I should burn it."

"No," I said. "It is too important a thing to you. Give it to me. I'll put it in my pockets. They won't think to look there. I can return it to you after the inspection. Here, we'll take it out of the frame and roll it up."

Her eyes sparkled. "Yes! I would never have thought of it. Thank you." She hurriedly tore open the frame and rolled up the sketch. I tied it with a small piece of twine and slipped it into my pocket. "To think I once actually liked the name Roger until I met O'Mara," she muttered.

* * *

"Jacob," I whispered, shaking Roger awake. "Jacob."

"Yes, darling." His voice was still woozy as he rolled over from his position cradling our daughter on the small bed.

Something about the way he said that sent a rush through me every time. "Mrs. Mollock and I overheard the landlord speaking with the police superintendent; he is planning a surprise inspection. Apparently, your little stunt at the pub did not go unnoticed."

"We'll have to keep our equipment with us. What about Millie?"

"The superintendent only mentioned the two of us, I don't think they've taken notice of Millie."

"The detective would have seen her when we arrived," he stated.

"Yes, but what are you always telling me about people noting things about the poor? They likely think she is just another of Mrs. Mollock's children. I doubt a man such as he would notice if she had two or three."

"That may be the case, still, I would be more comfortable if we knew. I would not want to risk her being taken and used as leverage. It would not hurt us too much to have to reveal our investigation to the police, but I would prefer as few people knew of our movements as possible."

"That is troublesome. Perhaps, we might gain our watchman's notes."

Roger smiled. "You'll be wanting a distraction then?"

"But nothing too distracting. Just enough to harness his attention for a minute."

"That should not be a challenge."

"There was another thing." I handed him the roll of paper.

"What is this?" he said untying the item, voice low to match my own. "The picture from the mantel."

"Mrs. Mollock gave it to me for safe-keeping."

"I assume there is more to this than a simple picture."

"The man who sketched it, Fedya, is actually Modest Aronstam."

Roger sat up in attention, "Berkman's cousin."

"The very same."

"So he is in Detroit."

"Yes. But there is more to it, it seems he was also one of Goldman's lovers."

Roger's eyebrows rose. "That does explain the depiction, she is not nearly so fetching in real life."

I nodded. "And they have not been able to contact him for some time as their letters are being monitored."

"I expect that means you will not be coming to bed tonight."

"Better me than you."

"Between us you are the better artist."

"I am glad you are willing to acknowledge my superiority."

"If it meant I might sleep through the night instead of squinting by lamplight to perfect a forgery, I would confess you my better in all things." he said, lying back down, holding up the paper between his fingers.

I snatched it from its perch and leaned over, giving my husband a quick kiss on the cheek. I whispered into his ear, so low the words might be mistaken for breath, "Goodnight, Roger." and withdrew.

He smiled lazily up at me. "You really are a cruel one. Goodnight, my love." He turned back to holding Millie.

I pulled myself away from the bed, dearly wishing I could, instead, wrap myself around my husband and child. But there was work to be done. I took the lamp over to the spindly desk in the corner and began my laborious work copying the letters on Mr. Aronstam's work until I could write them as naturally as if they were my own.

* * *

Late that morning Roger greeted me at the desk where I had fallen asleep with a cup of tea and the news that Miss Goldman wished to meet at the Zum Grosse Michel saloon at five o'clock. I sleepily handed him the letter, ostensibly from The Twin, I had only just completed before falling asleep.

He nodded as he read it over. "This is very good."

"I only hope she will believe it."

"It doesn't say enough to arouse suspicion. It would be reasonable he would attempt to contact his lover, if only to assure her he was well."

"And if the regular lines of communication were being watched he might use a third party." I said. "Where is our detective friend?"

"He's at his usual post, reading the paper for the third time."

"Speaking of which, do you have the newspaper?"

"I do, but I don't think you'll want to read it."

"Is it that bad?" I asked, knowing very well there could be only one reason for his warning. The scourge was in England.

"London and Vienna."

I sighed. "We should telegraph Granger to ascertain the situation."

"We would have regardless."

"Yes." I nodded. I had been contacting him daily regarding Russell, to no avail, and today would have been no different even without the excuse of a cholera epidemic.

"Are you ready to go?"

"As soon as I've finished my tea." I said, taking a sip.

* * *

"Are you ready?" Roger asked as we prepared to leave the apartment building.

"Of course," I replied haughtily.

"Then let us be off."

We strode out the door arm in arm toward the plain-clothes police officer who watched us from above his newspaper when something on the front page of the paper caught Roger's eye, causing him to disengage from me.

"Sir," he addressed the officer in his think Austrian accent, "May I please have a look at your paper, please.

The officer, clearly at sixes and sevens at this turn of events, did not even notice that I had snuck around behind him, deftly liberating his notepad from his pocket. "My paper?"

"Yes sir, please." Roger took hold of the item while the officer instinctively pulled back.

"What do you want it for?" the officer said through gritted teeth, "Get yer own!"

"Please sir, it says something about Vienna, my home country. It will only be a minute."

I flipped through the notepad until I found what I had sought, an entry dated the same as our arrival reading _A man and a woman engaged Josephine Pollak and have been taken into her home. Mentioned the name Puekert._ Not a word about Millie! I quickly slipped the notepad back in the man's pocket and returned to Roger's side.

"I said, get yer own!" the officer repeated.

"Jacob! Stop this!" I said in my German accent. Roger smiled wryly at me as he let the paper go, causing the officer to stumble backward a few steps.

"But something has happened in Vienna!" he said.

"That is no excuse to accost this poor man." I turned to the officer, lightly brushing off his coat. "I am sorry, sir, my husband meant no harm. He is only worried about his family. You are not hurt are you?"

"No," the officer said, straightening his coat, clearly quite irritated. I noticed his hands immediately went to his pockets to check that all was as he left them, there was a brief moment of surprise when he realized it was, as though he had expected to have been pickpocketed. That did not say much for his estimation of us, or perhaps it was merely common of the city.

"I do apologize again, sir. If there is no harm done we will be on our way."

The officer scowled at us but did not follow as he typically did. Perhaps because he knew we would recognize him too easily. Likely, beginning this evening, we would have a new guard. That would be doubly good for a new guard would not know Millie from Mrs. Mollock's children.

"Well?" Roger asked as we threaded through the back alleys toward the telegraph station.

"He made no note of having seen her."

"Good, then we can proceed as planned."

"Yes, hopefully the new man will be just as inept."

"Yes, hopefully. But we shall have to expect he will not be. I don't believe this Superintendent O'Mara will see this event as anything but suspicious."

"Still, I will be glad that Millie won't be recognized. I can breathe easier knowing that," I said.

When we arrived at the telegraph office the little man in the spectacles was waiting for me, his face wreathed in a grin, his eyes threatening to tear over as he handed me a telegram.

"It's for you, from Germany," he said, handing me the paper. "My German is not so good, but I think you will be pleased."

I read the location. "It's from the hospital in Hamburg!" I cried.

 _Dearest sister,_ It began in German.

 _I am sorry I have been so long in writing you. I have been in hospital this past week but they say I am on the mend. Sorry if I worried you._

 _Your loving brother._

"Dummgans," I said, wiping the joyous tears from my eyes with my sleeve, too overcome to even recall my handkerchief. "Dummgans." Roger wrapped an arm around me, reading the letter over my shoulder, I could feel his body relax behind mine. He rested his brow upon my shoulder and I felt the chill of water where his eyes were. Until this moment he had never let it show how much he had worried. He had to be strong for me. I reached back and ran my fingers through his dark hair.

* * *

I arrived at the saloon an hour before the appointed meeting time, taking with me a basket and a book that belonged to Mr. Mollock on the subject of anarchism. I situated myself at a table on the opposite side of the room from the bar where Roger was to meet Emma. Slipping the false eardrum into my ear, I sat with my tea and book, pretending to read as I listened to the conversations around me.

After half an hour had elapsed Miss Goldman arrived. I allowed a cursory glance at the woman. Roger was correct, though she was not ugly by any stretch of the imagination, she was not near so pretty as she was in the sketch. She was so very young! And quite tiny. She could not be much more than five feet were she even that; and certainly no older than twenty five. That this was the woman who had gained such infamy was boggling to the mind. She sat at the bar and took out a pair of spectacles and a newsletter, reclining somewhat on the stool as she read. The bartender placed a cup of tea by her elbow without her even suggesting an order. Her appearance was completely transformed by the addition of the spectacles. She now appeared almost a decade older, her pretty features, not favored by the dividing lines of the glasses, became instantly plain, even homely, and effect which was not helped by her rounded jaw. But this affect appeared to be her aim. This was more the Emma Goldman of my imaginings, this was the Emma Goldman who might cry for revolution and be heard rather than dismissed as a silly little girl. But a girl she still was.

Roger arrived ten minutes later and was shown back to where Miss Goldman waited. She did not stand to greet him, only closing her book and laying it upon her knee as she regarded him.

"Miss Goldman?" Roger said in his perfect Russian, extending a hand. "I am Jacob Moskowitz."

She ignored the gesture, instead taking a sip from her cup of tea. "Yes, Frank Mollock mentioned you were staying with them. You are a friend of Joseph Peukert?"

"Yes, we worked together for a time on Die Autonomie."

"I have read Die Autonomie and do not recall seeing your name." I nodded imperceptibly. This Emma Goldman was quite astute. She was not so foolish to trust based simply upon a name given in reference.

"I published under a nom de plume."

"Oh, did you. What was it?"

Roger leaned over and whispered something into her ear which caused her eyes to widen. Drawing back, he asked, "You have, perhaps, heard of me?"

She collected herself. "Yes, I am familiar with your work. But you have not written anything in years."

"Circumstances made it... inconvenient."

"Would you care to have a seat, Mr. Moskowitz?" Miss Goldman gestured to the stool beside her. The tightness in my chest loosened, he had won her favor. "Would you like a drink?"

"Perhaps a beer." I knew Roger never cared for beer, stating quite plainly that he should rather drink nothing than beer, but he must signal that he intended to have a conversation. Water would be telegraph to Miss Goldman that he was not wholly comfortable and feared the effects of alcohol.

Miss Goldman raised a hand and it no more needed to be asked for than it was done.

"I have something for you," he said, pulling the letter I had written the previous night from his waistcoat pocket. "It was sent to me by a friend, he wished me to give it to you."

She opened the envelope and read the few short lines upon the paper. Had she not already been surprised before she was now positively astonished. "How do you know Fedya?"

"From Springfield. We stayed at the same boarding house for a few weeks, but my daughter became sick and I decided to return home."

"He never mentioned you."

"I requested he not."

"Why?"

"There was some trouble in Austria. I would prefer not to delve into it, only to say it is best my name not be mentioned for fear of attracting the wrong sort of attention." Given that his Austrian persona was supposed to be dead this seemed a rather reasonable course of action.

"I cannot tell you how much this letter means to me, thank you." she said.

"Have you heard from the other half of the pair?" Roger asked.

"I have."

"How does he fare?"

"He has not been well, but he is remaining strong."

"It is a pity the dynamite failed."

"Yes, that would have been far better. Sasha has never been particularly skilled with a gun."

"What happened to the rest of the dynamite?"

"Who said there was more?" Emma eyed him suspiciously.

"You did when you refused to say where the money for the dynamite had come from. I have read your interviews."

"Oh, you mean that nonsense about the Anarchist's Den. Disgusting man. I haven't even bothered to read it."

"I thought it was quite favorable. Particularly in the way you deflected the attention from Mrs. Mollock onto yourself."

"Peppie is very dear to me. He wished to drag her through the mud for no reason than her husband paid back a loan to Sasha. Better it be I. I have the constitution for it. What might he say about me that has not already been said? Did you see how he tried to upset me by bringing up Most's latest bedmate? As though I should care about such things when my own husband is in prison." It sounded as though she had read the article.

"It showed he only intended to make a spectacle of our movement. I was gratified you did not rise to the his challenge."

"Small men with small minds."

"Still, you should be careful of being so transparent. You would have been better claiming a small amount of savings so they might believe that was all of the dynamite you possessed. As it was, all you told them was that there was enough money that you did not wish to disclose the amount for fear they would realize there must be more." Having him out of the field for so long it was easy to forget how brilliant Roger actually was. I could understand Granger's desire to have him back, for in this moment I desperately wished to convince him of the same.

"Yes, there was more, but Fedya took it when he left."

"How much more?"

"Enough to fill his pockets."

Roger nodded. "Given the train ticket, the suit, the gun, and the dynamite; you would have needed another source of funds."

"That was Sasha's business."

"You do not know how he came by the remainder?"

"No."

"Because there is a rumor, I am certain you have heard it, that Mr. Andrew Carnegie, himself, may have been the source of the funds. That he was looking to remove Frick from his position of partner without the public debacle of admitting what they did in Homestead was wrong."

Miss Goldman appeared stunned. "No! Sasha would never."

"I apologize but it has many of us in the community concerned. Are you certain he would not be persuaded by the greater good of killing Frick, even if it were to help Andrew Carnegie?"

"He hates Carnegie, almost more than Frick himself. He would never consent to work for him under any circumstances. His ideals are pure. If you knew him you would never doubt what I say. You were not there, you did not see how the news struck him when he learned of what Frick had done. When he heard of the workers short at and killed, of the child murdered and the women fired upon by those Pinkertons scabs. The fire in his eyes when he declared he would kill Frick. This rumor is Most's doing. He is jealous that my Sasha has proven himself to be a true man of the people while he sat in Wilzig's saloon getting drunk and milking whatever attention he might still receive from those who have not come to know him for what he is."

"And what is he?"

"Nothing. He is a broken old fraud."

"Was he not your lover?"

"I was younger and foolish. I heard him speak and thought him a brilliant man. A man of our cause. Then I saw him for what he was and I'll admit, I pitied him, which to a young mind is something like love. But all he ever was were words strung together in lovely sentences. He never had the stomach to stand for his fellow man. My Sasha is his superior in every way. His attendat may have failed, but at least he had the courage to attempt it. Men like Frick need to know they are not safe. They need to know they cannot simply keep taking advantage of their workers. There are people who are willing to stand up and tell him he has gone too far."

"Like you and O'Donnell." Ah, he was trying to ascertain what had occurred between her and O'Donnell. Roger and I had wondered about that. His reaction to her might have been one of disgust, but just as easily could have been a sign that they were together in the plot and he did not wish to be seen with her that they might be associated.

She shook her head, "Mr. O'Donnell is not yet ready. He still believes Frick might be reasoned with. He does not understand there is no reasoning with men such as these. They build libraries and tell themselves that they are great philanthropists but they don't see the men breaking their backs twelve hours a day to provide for their families, they don't see children starving or the houses in disrepair, they don't see how they steal from the people when they cut their wages, when they increase their hours, when they increase their production demands. To force them to worker harder for less. They don't see how they crush men's dreams and break their souls as they watch what little was theirs be taken away. And then, then they take away even that thing which they had dedicated themselves to, sworn their loyalty to - they take their jobs and their factory and hand it over to men who don't care about it, who don't care about their community - if they did care they would never dream of stealing their jobs out from under does loyalty mean? Nothing to men like Frick and Carnegie. What is the worth of men but what their labor might be sold for? Men such as these cannot be reasoned with for that assumes they would view human life as valuable. Frick has surrendered no feelings of guilt in the deaths of those seven who died defending their mill at Homestead. He does not care. I only wish Sasha had been able to finish what he began. But hopefully, when the time comes O'Donnell will see the merit in joining forces with the anarchists. There may not be many of us, but we are willing to do what is required."

Roger nodded. "Attentat." He took a swig of his beer.

"Attentat." Miss Goldman confirmed.

"Like Sasha."

"Sasha's actions will inspire them. They know now that Frick is a man, able to bleed like any other man."

* * *

"That was quite a conversation you had with Miss Goldman," I said, pulling up a pair of lilac gloves.

"I think we may have underestimated her," Roger said, undoing his tie.

"I still believe she is only sound and fury. She would never do anything more than speak."

"Yes, but sound and fury can be powerful things. A voice like hers has the power to sway."

"The voice of a true believer," I said with a slight shudder.

"Precisely."

"Thankfully she is not our target. What did you think of her account of Berkman?"

"She is striving too hard to lionize him; she knows he is weak, though what that particular weakness may be is a bit difficult to determine. Since she directly juxtapositioned him with Most, I would guess it to be his mind."

"I suppose we shall find out soon enough."

"I wish I could go with you," Roger said, frowning, as he buttoned the back of my dress.

"I know, but it will be difficult enough to convince him to speak with me and we are still no closer to finding where the money came from. If Most is behind the rumor than I must speak with him, perhaps he may know something Miss Goldman does not. You heard Miss Goldman; it is the attention of women he seeks. Besides, my mind will be at ease knowing it is you watching Millie."

"Still, perhaps it might wait until tomorrow," Roger suggested.

"I wish it would, but we are out of time. I do not want to be around when the landlord inspects this flat if it might be helped. The risk he might accidentally expose us is too great, and then we would truly be in danger. We do not need the whole of the anarchist community aware of our infiltration into their world."

"Be safe out there," Roger said, kissing my cheek.

"I will try." I said, and, grasping onto the makeshift bedsheet rope, I climbed out the window to the alleyway below, outside of the view of the police officer.

* * *

I arrived at Paul Wilzig's saloon at almost eight in the evening. It was a rather dingy place, though it was apparent the owner did what he could to keep in tolerable, but between the soot of the workhouses and the dirt of its patrons, the task was simply Sisyphean in scope. I watched as Most spoke to a group of anarchists railing on about the need for revolution and the rights of men. But he was careful to point out that such revolutions must not be done as Berkman did, carelessly, that he might be glorified. That the cause might be lost in the incompetence of the man.

Most was an ugly man, bald but for graying wisps of hair that formed a long stripe to the brow of his squat, square head. I was most transfixed by his large, bushy beard that managed to be so terribly asymmetrical I concluded it must be hiding a rather significant facial deformity, though what it was exactly I could not guess from the distance. Even in speech he possessed far more force than eloquence. His arguments were not wholly without merit but he did them not favors by his rhetoric. Something of his slumping aspect recalled to mind the blackening embers of a dying fire that had once raged brightly.

I waited at a far table as the meeting came to a close and, one by one, the crowd slowly dispersed until there was only a small group of men speaking and laughing with Most. As he got up to leave with a few of them I stood.

"Herr, Most?" I said.

He turned.

"Might I have a word with you?"

"Go on," he waved the other men on. "I'll catch up with you."

He sat back down at the table and gestured for the proprieter to bring him another beer. "What is it? If you are looking for companionship, you'll have to forgive me, but I am not interested."

I could have laughed at his presumption. That I might seek his companionship was wholly ridiculous. "I wish to join your group."

"You? Do you fancy yourself another Emma Goldman? Do you want Herr Most to make you famous as he did with her?" his patronizing tone grated on me, but still I would persist.

"No. I would never wish to do that. But I thought I might be able to help the cause in other ways."

He scanned me over from top to toe. "In what was I wonder? Sewing? Cleaning? Cooking? I assure you we have plenty who can already do those things. Unless you can give me some reason I might risk bringing you in-

"I know how to make bombs!" I cried.

"Oh, and where did you learn such a thing? A book perhaps?" Johann Most taunted dismissively, as though I were just another of his fanatics.

He was not going to take me seriously. It was a desperate gamble that he might know the sign, but one that must be taken. It was my only chance that he might regard me as one worthy of his attention. I reached into my bag, pushing aside the notepad and pencil I kept in favor of a small pocket knife I often used for sharpening the writing utensil. I pulled it out and plunged it into the table, carving a large X. On the left side of the X I carved a small K, on the right a small M. I drew up to my full height and looked down upon the man imperiously, as though it were he who had the honor of the meeting and not myself. Most stared at the symbol, his eyes wide.

"What did you do to my table!" The proprietor cried from the bar, making to approach, but Most raised his hand to stop him.

"No. Leave us." Most said, waving him away. The proprietor moved to the other end of the bar where he contented himself to polish glasses and shoot contemptuous glances at me.

Most turned his suspicious gaze from the table to me. "Who are you?"

"Hannah Moskowitz." I answered.

"You know the meaning of this symbol?" He still seemed unable to believe what was before his eyes.

"It is the sword that shall subdue the world." I answered in German. The symbol of The Remnant of the Kingdom of Muenster. Du Beauchene had dispensed with much of the cult's original symbol leaving only the X, it's original symbolism of the crossed swords that had once decorated the scepter of John Van Leiden during his short reign in Munster. The K and the M remained, in a vestigial fashion, on either side. Many of the members, excepting those who had come from the Sanguinem Agnii, did not even know their meaning. It was a secret they preferred to guard carefully.

"Why are you here?" There was no disguising the tremor in his German. He knew who the Remnant was, what they were capable of. He knew what a meeting with one might mean.

"If you mean to ask why I am in New York, that is none of your concern. If you mean to ask why I am here I assure you I have not come for your life. I only wish to talk."

"To talk?" he repeated.

"Yes."

His fear appeared to subside, replaced now with a dawning expression of pride, as though he were now realizing the great honor bestowed upon him. A member of the Remnant wished to speak to him. Now assured of his value he regarded me slyly. "You say you know how to make bombs, is that where you learned the skill."

"Yes."

"Who did you study under? Keifer?"

"Keifer? Keifer is rubbish. He has no skill. Binding sticks of dynamite together and lighting a fuse is hardly worth the effort." Keifer was rubbish; little more than a mad bomber who had managed to get his name in the paper for a time after he blew up a postal box. I was glad to put an end to his idiotic spree. I was almost offended Most would even suggest I had studied under him.

"It is effective."

"That is hardly the point. Do you know how Keifer was caught? Witnesses saw him running from the site of an explosion. He did not even have the sense to give himself the time to walk away. A bomb should be a work of art not just nitroglycerin and flame."

"And what would you consider to be such a work?"

I took my pencil and notepad from my bag and sketched a fair representation of the Brighton Pier bomb. Tearing the picture from the pad I handed to him. I had no reason to fear his knowing its schematics: it was a complicated device that had been at least a year in the making and requiring specific conditions to even be installed. He would be more likely to kill himself than others were he to even attempt it. He stared, taking it all in.

"It is a masterpiece," he breathed. "Multiple points of ignition, almost impossible to dismantle without triggering the bomb, and that is true blasting oil?"

I nodded.

"Marvelous. What was it created for?"

"Brighton Pier."

"Extraordinary. I should like to see it in action. But only one would attempt something so complex."

"The Master Artist himself, Le Mauvais Moine." Like the meaning of the letters on the symbol so to had Du Beauchene's name been left only to the knowledge of his original followers leaving only vague titles to be given to those unworthy to know his true name.

"You are his disciple?"

"You insult me, sir. He has no disciples, nor has he ever. He has only allowed one access to his mind's secrets."

"You are his lover?"

"A lover?" I laughed humourlessly. "Such a base term could never convey the intimacies we have shared. No woman still alive can claim to have captured him as I have." It felt a perversity to declare pride in what disgusted me so, and yet it was not a false acknowledgement. There was some hidden vanity within me that secretly gloried in the knowledge that of all women I was his fixation. That, were it not for my own objection, I would be his lover. To be so desired by one of the most powerful men in Europe might be intoxicating were the idea not so vile. But I had not forgotten our days together, there was still some of is infection I had not been able to purge, that lived inside me to be remembered in the breaking of bread or snatches of a poem.

"Forgive me, I was not aware."

"No, you were not, but that is no excuse. Still, we have an interest in some information of the anarchist movements as they are America and we believe you may be the expert on the matter."

"I am hardly an expert, only an old fool who has been around for far too long." He took a swig of his beer and gazed nostalgically out the window.

"You underestimate yourself," I said, though I truly believed it was exactly as he said. He was an old fool who was casting about for some flattering comment from me that might make him feel more relevant even as it was clear the movement he had once been integral in was now passing him by.

"Do I? They used to come from hundreds of miles away to hear me speak."

"Clearly they still do," I said haughtily, making no disguise that I meant myself.

"I suppose that is true." He brightened some as he took another pull from his drink. "You are from Germany, are you not?"

"Yes."

"The Northwestern part if I am not mistaken."

"Near Munster."

"Whereabouts near Munster?"

"Coerde."

"Coerde," he repeated, sounding satisfied. "You know how I knew that? It is the way you say your a's."

"Very observant of you."

"I was born in Augsburg, myself. Have you ever been?"

"Only as near as Munich."

"Not as interesting as Munich. Not much of worth comes from Augsburg. It comes from Vienna or Frankfurt or Berlin. You have been to Vienna?"

"Yes, many times."

"I used to live there, until they expelled me for speaking out about socialism. I was naive back then, I thought the government could represent the people. I learned better when I served in the Reichstag. I'd bet you didn't know that. I was one of the sixty the people chose to represent them! And even then most of the sixty were paid off. I think I might have been the only honest man in the bunch. Sixty." He snuffed. I could remember Menning lamenting the exact same thing in his Bible study.

"Out of three hundred ninety seven," I said.

"So Le Mauvais Moine cares even of such irrelevant details."

"No detail is irrelevant where it might be turned to our favor."

"I would wish you the best in that goal. You might as well stand before an onrushing train and tell it to stop for all the good it will do you. We were only there to make certain the people felt they had a voice, so they wouldn't rise up and rebel. It wasn't long before I began to realize that was exactly what they should do." Most continued on in this manner talking about himself and his time in the Reichstag and his realization of inefficacy of government to bring about the welfare of the people. "Of course, they could not have people like myself speaking out against their corrupt system, so like Hammon did to Malachi, my detractors fought to make my ideals illegal. I was arrested and put in jail. When I was finally released I went to France, thinking they would be more sympathetic to the ideas of liberty but they too were too greatly infected by their love of soft cushions to sit upon as those of the lower classes bowed before them. They could not stand to hear the truth of their corruption and thus I was soon forced to leave there for London where I was surprised to find quite a number of like-minded individuals. It was there I began publishing Freiheit. No doubt you have heard of it?"

I nodded.

"For all England's claim of enlightened thinking they proved themselves just as narrow as the French and Germans. When Czar Alexander II was assassinated I called for others to follow the example. Seems the monarchy was a bit too frightened that its people might be dissatisfied with their rule and they had me jailed. It was then I knew my only hope to spread the cause of anarchy was in America, a country still forming its identity, not one so stuck in its old ways that it would willfully close its ears to the truth. Now that I am thinking on it, there was a man I met in Pittsburgh not too long ago who thought much the same way, a Russian named Nikolai. He was rather well regarded amongst the anarchists there," he mused. "Rumor had it he was among those who assassinated the Czar, that the attempt left him with the scar on his left cheek. He was not much of an orator, which was a pity for I would have very much liked to bring him with me on a speaking tour, but in a small group he was a force to behold. And for all his passion even he was not foolish enough to attempt to murder Frick."

"As opposed to Alexander Berkman."

"Yes, the would be assassin whose selfish actions single-handedly did more damage to the strike than anything Frick might do. But he always was a small minded man. He could talk about ideals, live the austere life, but he lacked true vision. He saw struggle and utopia and none of the steps in between the two. That he was fool enough to think killing Frick might inspire instant revolution only goes to prove that."

"You said he lived the austere life. Then where did he obtain the money for the attendat?"

"Who knows. Some say it was Carnegie who paid him off. Such things are none of my concern. The police have already interviewed me and I told them the same thing I will tell you: Alexander Berkman was a fool with delusions of grandeur and no associate of mine."

"And what of Emma Goldman?"

"What about her?"

"You two used to be close? Perhaps she has mentioned something."

"I don't speak to Emma if it can possibly be helped. She is as ignorant of the world as Berkman and even more selfish, if such a thing might be possible. Emma has no love for the common man or even Berkman, the only thing she loves, the only thing she has ever loved, is attention. It is a bottomless well within her that can never be satisfied. Oh she may write pretty words and make passionate speeches but it is all for one end and one alone. You would do well to avoid her."

I noticed the proprietor was no longer at the bar. Something in his disappearance left me unsettled. "Thank you for speaking with me, Herr Most" I said, curtly.

"You won't stay for one more drink?" Most's disappointment was evident, but I could not let that trouble me now. Something was amiss.

"No, thank you. If I have any further questions I shall be certain to contact you." I turned on heel and strode out the door just in time to spot a pair of detectives rounding the corner.

"There she is!" the shorter one yelled. "Stop! Police!"

Oh Hell's bells and buckets of blood.


	8. Chapter 7

Wasting not a moment, for there was not even a moment's span before they would be upon me, I swung myself over the stoop railing, landing in the concrete well which housed a door to the basement below the stoop. I instantly assessed my situation. I was trapped in the basin that was entered only by a concrete stairwell, protected at the top by a locked gate which, even now, the police officers were attempting to negotiate. I might retreat back into the pub, but the time lost answering for my reappearance would allow for my capture and certainly, as enamored as he was with my connections, I could not expect Most would lift a finger in my aid. I could possibly jump and climb my way out but for the wrought iron rail that surrounded the basin. The rail could be easily scaled, but would take precious time. Above that, hanging from the brick wall just to the right of the far corner of the concrete well, was the ladder of a fire escape. A smile crossed my lips as I noted the web of ladders and awnings that spidered across the fronts of the buildings. I would just have to make do with what I had, which was quite enough.

The officers had opted to step upon a small concrete block that allowed just enough space for a single foot and were now clamoring down the stairs, foolish as they were to allow the smaller of the men to lead the charge. He was some sort of mixture of the Irish and the Slav, slight of build and light of foot, but his partner was an Irish giant, easily twice the first's width and three times his girth. It was almost a childish act to use them, but I needed the extra seconds. I tore open a pouch of ball bearings, kept for just such a purpose, and flung the metallic spheres onto the cement stairs between the detectives. This had the immediate effect of causing the large Irishman to slip, falling backward his hulking mass slid down the remaining stairs and into his partner, knocking the legs out from under the smaller man.

"Hey!" the smaller man cried, struggling to free himself. "Get offa me!"

I gripped the striking surface which encased the smoke bomb's fuse between my teeth and pulled. The fuse burst into flame. I hid it behind my back. It would still be a few more moments before the fire would ignite the bomb.

The smaller man stood, his pistol trained on me. "Get your hands up!" he ordered.

"Now is that weapon truly necessary?" I said.

"Look at this," the other officer said, holding up a ball bearing to his partner. "The steps are covered in them, that must be why I slipped."

"I thought I heard something scattering," the other replied, he thrust his gun forward toward me. "I said: Hands up! And no more funny business."

I put my one hand up. "I assure you, I don't find any of this business the least bit funny," I said, mentally counting down the seconds in my head.

"Both hands."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that." Five... four...

"What are you hiding behind your back? Flynn, circle around." The large Irishman pulled his gun and slowly began to creep to my right.

"You mean this?" I presented the black orb, the remainder of the fuse sparking.

The smaller man cursed loudly in Slavic, diving away from me. In one fluid motion I tossed the bomb, spread my umbrella, and fell to my knee, covering myself from the shrapnel under the thick silken canopy as the sound of the blast was followed by the enveloping smoke.

"Don't just sit there! Shoot her!"

"I can't see!" Flynn hollered.

"Just shoot!"

Bullets ricocheted off the walls around me, it was time for me to leave.

I shut my umbrella and hooked it onto the metal rail above me, using it like a rope to climb up the wall. I balanced on top of the railing, grabbing the fire escape ladder.

"There she goes!" I heard from below. I felt a bullet strike the heel of my boot as I pulled myself up onto the metal rungs. I made the landing just as the smoke cloud was clearing - I would have to speak to Quentin about creating a longer lasting smoke - bullets struck the grate below me.

"Wolfe, I'll give you a boost." Flynn said, interlacing his finger to create a step. Hells bells! They were clever. I hated when they were clever. Wolfe stepped in the manual platform and Flynn practically threw him into the air. He grabbed the lowest rung and began climbing, legs swinging back and forth, the gun he had not bothered to put away clanking against the metal and his hand. Below him Flynn had grabbed the rail and was pulling himself up.

I took stock of my surroundings. I had two options. Well three, if I including dropping Officer Wolfe onto his partner, but I did not fancy a scrap at the moment nor did I wish to add assaulting an officer of the law to their supposed case against me. The fire escape continued up for three more stories, with grate-floored cages on each level. Only three levels though, not to the roof. If I didn't enter the building through a window I'd be trapped. I'd be trapped on the grates anyway. All Officer Wolfe would have to do was shoot from the platform below. It was risky, what with the ricochet, but if he were even a serviceable shot he might get lucky, and a shot to my leg might just as well kill me as incapacitate me. No, the best option would be to put as much distance between us as possible. The building beside 85th possessed a stoop leading up to a door almost level with the platform upon which I was standing. The door, itself, was recessed within a bulky decorative wooden framework that had probably once appeared quite the gilding on the lily but now, like the rest of the building appeared tired and worn down, a gaudy symbol of unrealized aspirations. The top of the door frame was only maybe a foot from another fire escape. It appeared as though if I continued up the ladder I would come to a metal bar which anchored my iron ladder to the building, at almost level with the neighboring doorway. I knew what must be done.

Leaving the relative safety of the platform I began climbing the ladder once more on the opposite side of Officer Wolfe, who was only a few rungs below me now, desperately trying to swing his foot up to the lowest rung. Feeling the ladder shake, he looked up, to see me above him. He took aim, but his foot, already precariously perched, slipped from the sudden adjustment of his position a he fell, holding himself up by one arm. I could feel him swinging below me as he tried to regain his grip. I felt the sharp tug of the metal telling me he had gotten it. But he was too late. I threaded myself through the ladder and climbed onto the anchoring bar, balancing perilously on the few inches of iron beneath my boots as I edged to the wall, my umbrella spread. A bullet ricocheted off the thick silk from below. Judging by the angle Flynn must be on the street.

I jumped to the top of the door frame, not bothering to attempt to gain my balance, I continued forward, allowing my instinct to guide my feet across the thin wooden beam to the neighboring fire escape. I felt a great sense of relief as I gripped the cold black iron in my hands. Another bullet glanced across my umbrella. They were wasting ammunition. I scaled the side of the fire escape platform and ran across. Would I go up? I could hear Wolfe swiftly climbing the ladder behind me.

I saw it between the buildings, mine and the next, a pale reflection of light from a window illuminating what appeared as not much more than an alleyway between the two buildings, two stories from the ground. A light court! I had seen precious few in my travels, they were little more than an exposed corridor between buildings designed to allow natural light and air access to rooms that would otherwise receive neither. But the fire escape was too far from it. Even were I to jump from the ladder it would be too far. I could see the slim jutting surface of a stone window frame. It could not be more than a few inches wide. Still, it was my best chance. I sprinted across the fire escape platform, jumping a short set of stairs onto a slightly lower platform. I climbed onto the thin fencing that wrapped around the fire escape and stood up keeping a hand upon the brick wall, balancing on the half inch of iron.

"Don't do it!" I heard the thick Irish accent below me. It took me a moment to realize what he meant. He thought I was going to jump.

I felt the other end of the fire escape shake. "Please, don't. We don't want to hurt you," Wolfe said. I turned to see him slowly creeping toward me. They didn't want to hurt me? Funny, I could have sworn they had been firing at me a second ago.

Below I heard a low murmuring. Peering down from my perch I could see there were dozens of people watching, no doubt curious from the noise. So that was why they had stopped shooting - it was one thing to shoot me as I attempted to escape them, but to murder a supposedly unarmed desperate woman in full view of the public would likely prove quite the scandal.

"I've done nothing wrong! Leave me alone!" I cried in my thick German accent, my face well obscured by my umbrella. The mumbling below grew louder, I could now make out a number of similarly accented voices calling out for the officers to do as I had asked.

"Just step down and we can talk about this. We don't want any trouble, we only want to talk," Wolfe said loudly, as much to me as to the crowd, inching ever closer.

"Then put the gun away," I sobbed.

Wolfe's aspect darkened, he glanced to the crowd below. Hearing that he was holding a gun on me had roused their ire further. A quick glance at Flynn told me he had already holstered his piece. Wolfe took a deep breath and let it out. "There, you see, I'm putting away my gun," he said, drawing the weapon back and putting into its holster. "Now will you please step down."

"As you wish," I said quietly, so that only he could hear, then I gave him a wink and stepped off the thin railing. There was a gasp from the crowd and then a moment of shocked silence as I skittered across the window sill and, grasping the window's edge, I pulled myself around the corner onto the light court and sprinted down it to the echoing cries of Officer Wolfe to shoot me.

The day had been stifling, much of the late August heat had not yet dissipated, leaving many windows open. Preferring to be inside, I chose the third window, left wide open by owners who likely never imagined anyone might think to gain access to their home by way of the light court. Espionage truly was best accomplished in the summer. Sliding in through the window, I stopped only long enough to pull it down that only a few inches were left between the frame and the sill. If Officer Wolfe did choose to attempt to follow me, I would prefer to make my escape route as inconspicuous as possible. I picked my way through the apartment argued with a half dozen locks and finally out the door into the main corridor. It was a hall that appeared far older than it likely was from want of proper care and upkeep, perfumed by the scent of mold and some variety of pickled cabbage and carpeted in some threadbare red rag that had probably once been notable for more than its impressive display of cigarette burns and stains. I made my way through the flickering gaslight to the end of the hall to a wooden slab that had been propped open a few inches wearing the badge _Stairs_ , beneath its designation was a handwritten note _Do Not Prop Door Open_. I descended the stairs and exited onto the street behind the building.

Which way would I go? Everything within me was pulling me back to the apartment on Chrystie street. Roger was there with my dear little Millie. There must have been some sort of trouble or the police would not be after me. If something were to happen to either of them, or, God forbid, both, how could I go on? How could I live without my heart? It took all that I had to turn in the opposite direction. Surely, if they had been sent after me, the officers would expect that I would head towards the apartment. If they were as clever as they seemed it was likely Flynn had already circled around to the end of the street, which would mean Wolfe... I could hear the pounding of someone descending the stairs rapidly. I would have to trust Roger to fend for himself. He would never let any harm come to Millie so long as there was breath in his body. I sprinted down the narrow street, making half the block before the door to the building I had just left slammed open.

"There she goes! Flynn! Follow me!" I heard from behind. Wolfe was fast, I could hear him behind me, keeping pace with my long legs. Whistles sounded behind me.

I turned right down a main street without thinking. The moment I had I regretted it. Right was the natural bend for humanity, to turn, to look. In the moments I could have bought simply by turning left I might have been able to shake the officers, but on a wide street such as this one, even with the growing cloak of darkness as dusk finally fully surrendered itself to night, I had turned what might have been a simple matter of evasion into a footrace. I heard the clanging of a bell from my left and saw a great mechanical beast with golden eyes lunging at me. I leapt forward, my heel just being clipped by the cable car. Still, it would buy me the much needed moment of cover I hoped for. I veered left down a narrow road and left again at the end of the block. As I cam out between the buildings my eyes were suddenly dazzled by an enormous sign surrounded by blinking incandescent bulbs with the name _Maurice Barrymore_ written across it in gigantic black letters. All around me electric lights flickered and hummed. Even the trolleys that traveled up and down the street were rimmed in them. It were as though I had been transported to Blackpool during the illuminations. From what I could gather I had stumbled into some type of theater district. Tides of people ebbed and flowed from the brightly lit opera houses and theaters.

"Patrick! Get her!" A voice from somewhere behind me shouted. I thrust my umbrella behind me, hitting something soft and heavy. The man who was likely Patrick groaned, his blue police cap falling at my feet. A whistle sounded from behind. I glanced in the direction I had come from to see Officer Wolfe fighting his way through the sea of people showing not even the slightest hint of exhaustion.

"Damnation," I said to myself. This was bad. New York was Wolfe's home, not mine. If I were not careful he might entrap me as Roger and I had once trapped that would-be bomber in Brighton. And where was his partner, Flynn? Hopefully exhausted, but just as likely he might have taken another route to head me off. No more turns, I resolved, if Officer Wolfe wanted a footrace, then that was precisely what he would get. But at the moment, I had the advantage, for I had the crowd. With the skill of one who had long been trained how to move through the crowded halls and dance floors of society, I slipped through the wave of people coming out from the Astor Opera House, without even having to significantly slow my pace, finding myself across the broad way and half a mile down with little effort at all. As I did I snuck a peek back. Wolfe's whistles had rather the opposite effect as he might have hoped, rather than causing the people to open up a way for him, the people only stopped and looked around for the source of the sound and what it was that might be provoking it. A large, hatless officer came to his assistance, furiously pulling people out of Wolfe's way, his eyes fixed on me. Patrick.

I ran. I could still hear the shrill call of the whistles behind me, not more than two blocks away. The bright lights grew dimmer, starring roles changed from Hamlet to Mr. Bones. There were fewer people and those that did roam the streets were of the courser variety. Women, their faces painted in garish shades consorted with men who did not care. Theaters gave way to pubs and tenements. And then, suddenly, I saw it. The trap was sprung.

Four great white Corinthian columns decorated the front of the imposing edifice constructed of granite and marble that was Tweed Courthouse. Wolfe had shepherded me right into the heart of the city government, even from this distance I could see the blue uniforms of officers among the trees, waiting, probably alerted by Flynn of the plan. I turned right down a narrow side street. My chest was on fire, a stitch twisted painfully within my ribs. Granger would kill me, assuming Mr. Wolfe did not do the job first. But I had no intention of making the capture easy for him. At this distance between us a series of quick turns could give me a chance to hide if I could spot a suitable place. I turned left. I did not have much more left within me. My legs were almost spent. I was certain I had never run so far in my life. It might be easier to turn around and simply surrender. But how would it appear for the assistant director of the British Secret Service to be captured in New York? If they even believed that was my role; certainly Roger was the more believable second to Granger. Not this street, but the next one, I had enough of a lead. He'd expect I went down the first available street. I might gain a few minutes. I ran on, turning left again. I could see the lights of Tweed Courthouse at the end of the road. I needed to find a place to hide.

Just down the street I saw a light coming from the back of a large building that occupied most of the block. A man in coveralls walked out of a door carrying a large rubbish bin with him. He deposited the bin on the side of the door and shuffled back inside, not bothering to shut the door behind him. Despite my near inability to breathe I redoubled my speed, desperate to make the warm glow of the doorway before the man could come back and shut the door.

I was in. I looked down the corridors. No sign of the man. Grasping the door from behind me, I slowly pulled it shut, falling back upon it in relief as my rapid breath began to slow. I placed a hand to my chest, feeling the racing of my heart like the pounding of an Irish drum. For the moment I was safe. I walked carefully down the hall, trying to put as much distance between myself and the door as possible, should Wolfe have seen me come in. The sound of scuffling feet and the scraping of metal down the corridor to my right warned me of the janitor's approach. I turned and, noticing a door marked as stairs, I quickly hid myself behind it.

I heard the janitor curse as he noticed the door was closed, heard the sound of the rubbish bin being dropped to the floor and the jangle of keys as he unlocked the door, his curses growing more distant as he walked further from the building. For the moment, I was alone. Breathing a sigh of relief, I lit a match, examining my surroundings. There was only one set of stairs leading down into the depths of the building, despite the building having a number of floors above. The stairwell was dark, seeming to go on into infinity, with the unnatural chill of a priest's hole.

Lighting a small candle I kept in my bag for just such occasions, I walked carefully down the stairs. The walls were decorated with tile that had fallen off in places, littering the floor with glassy shards. At the bottom of the stair was a room, much larger and emptier than I would have expected to find in such a building. Large broken glass tanks decorated the walls. As I held my candle aloft I could see the faint glistening of dust caked lamp globes protruding from the wall above me. Cobwebs hung like sheets from the outstretched arms of statues. A grand piano, white keys yellow from age sat in a neglected corner. So distracted was I that I almost tripped down a second, shorter flight of stairs that led further down to a platform. As I descended the stairs to the platform I found a lower area beyond that, carved into the platform, with a single steel rail at the bottom. I lowered myself into the recessed area. My feet brushed against numerous paper wrappings and tiny metal objects. Crouching down I saw these were rifle cartridges and shot. I turned to the direction they must have been firing toward and saw a great brick maw, its throat deep and black. Above it, on the cement plaque that was situated in its center, I was able to make out a large letter P and, below that letters that might have been RANSI, though it was difficult to be certain from the dancing shadows caused by the flickering of my candle flame. The miniature fire sprite bent toward me in its dance. There was air coming from the tunnel. And if there were air, perhaps it might lead me to a way out.

I jumped into the shaft wide, cut into the floor of the basement. There were three rails at the bottom of the brick tunnel, one on either side and one directly in the middle. "What strange train would run in something such as this?" I wondered, rifle shot sliding beneath my feet. An underground train in New York? The thought was almost marvelous. How had I not heard of such a thing before? It was the very thing that should have excited a great deal of attention as the Metropolitan Railway in London had. Yet no one had mentioned such a thing. The tunnel appeared very old, so there doubtless would have been enough time. Certainly it looked nothing like the Met. It was more reminiscent of the Tower Subway underground pedestrian tunnel under the Thames, being small and tubular in form, not at all like the vast underground tunnels of the Met. Perhaps it had not worked properly? Or had met with disaster? I had not heard anything of it, but then, it very well might have occurred fifty years before my birth. I shuddered as I envisioned an underground train disaster, a conflagration devouring the car and all within it with no hope of escape, fire and smoke shooting out from the tunnel ends. There didn't seem to be any smoke scars on the walls, but still, the very thought that it could happen...

The thin light of my flame caught something. Movement! At least the height of a person. Was there someone else here in the tunnel with me? Perhaps a vagrant? I shifted my shoulders forward, ready to fight if necessary, gingerly stepping forward watching the strange motion. As I approached my eyes refocused. It was not a person at all, merely the reflection of my candle in an oblong glass window. But what was this thing that occupied the full space of the tunnel? There appeared to be an empty doorway in the center, I stepped in to find two rows of upholstered seats, so worn and filthy from disuse it was difficult to tell their coloration. Large patches of fabric had been chewed away by rats, leaving the stuffing and springs exposed. Still, it was a bench, and I was exhausted. I set myself on the old bench next to a bare patch where a spring stuck out. The upholstery sank in, almost to the wooden seat.

The very fact Officer Wolfe and his ilk had not yet found me indicated this tunnel might be a long forgotten relic older than his twenty or thirty years (it was difficult to guess at the age of a man who was giving chase). By now he would certainly have realized he had lost my trail and would have the whole of the police force searching. He would figure I must have turned right, not left, headed toward the battery - certainly had I gone left I would have been routed at the courthouse. They would have begun a dragnet search by now. My candle was about half gone, perhaps twenty minutes since I had lit it. I exhaled deeply, watching the flame flicker and dance from my breath.

"There's no time to waste sitting," I said, willing myself up onto my weary legs. I allowed a wry smile. "Mr. Bond will be waiting for me, and I would hate to disappoint him."

I stepped through the old vehicle to the other side where only dense blackness greeted me. How much longer could this tunnel be? Not much longer was it as I found out, walking directly into a solid black wall only a few yards from the car. "Blast!" I said, running my hand over the wall. I had no desire to go back from whence I had come. I held up the candle, watching the flame - it no longer danced as it had before, wherever the air had come from, it was behind me now. I released a beleaguered sigh and turned back to the station.

It was a relatively easy task to slip by the night janitor who had fallen asleep on his mop bucket, leaning against his broom. The police had left the area unguarded, in the distance I could hear the occasional whistle as they headed toward the battery in search of a phantom. I traced my path back to Chrystie street, being careful to keep to the shadows when the crowds of the theater district could not be found. I made my way to a pub across the street from the apartment, sneaking up to second floor landing of the tenement building's fire escape, I was able to see from my perch the scene from the brightly lit windows of the apartment we had occupied. In our bedroom stood Roger, under the watch of two police officers, one of whom appeared to be quite frustrated from by husband's silence. In the main room Mrs. Mollock was huddled with the children, Millie among them; the landlord and our friend, the detective from the street, watching them. I could hear, even from this distance, the landlord alternately berating her and the police for continuing to hold them there. Roger simply appeared slightly bored.

I held up my compact mirror so as to catch the lamplight and shined it toward the open window of our former bedroom, flashing out a signal. I saw Roger's eyes flicker toward the light.

"I want them out of here! Now!" The landlord fumed to the officers guarding Roger.

"That's enough out of you!" the detective questioning Roger said. Daring the landlord to say another word with a flick of his billet club.

"I've half a mind to do what he says. Now, for the last time, where is the woman you were traveling with?" the officer demanded for what was probably the hundredth time.

"If your men have been out searching for her all this time, wouldn't you know better than I?" He was still using his Russian accent, with its strong hint of English.

"Where would she hide?"

"I don't know how I'd be expected to know such a thing."

"Well you were traveling with her. Murtoch says you never go out without her."

"That would be correct, but as you can see, that does not mean she does not go out without me."

"Who is she?"

"Don't you already know?"

"Don't play like your smarter than me, I know all of you anarchists use fake names."

"I don't have to play," Roger said with his smug air.

The detective's face had gone red. "Oh, so you think you are smarter than me?"

"I don't see how my opinion is relevant in the matter."

"Tell me who the woman is!" The detective brandished his club as if to threaten Roger, who regarded it with no more fear than if it had been a long-stemmed daisy.

"If you must know, she is my wife."

"Your wife?"

"Yes."

"And you have no idea where your wife could be?"

"That is neither here nor there." Roger said, pulling a cigarette from a silver tin in his breast pocket. He placed the little white stick in his mouth and patted his pockets.

"I'll say it is! Now you'll tell me-"

"Pardon me, detective, but would you happen to have a match? I seem to have misplaced mine." I fought to keep from laughing as the furious detective handed Roger a match. "Thank you." He lit the cigarette and took a drag before flicking the remainder on the floor between the two officers, much to the detective's disgust. "Anyway, I really do have to be going, so if you'll pardon me."

"You're not going anywhere!" The detective advanced with his club to block Roger.

"I'm afraid you are mistaken," Roger said, covering his ears.

Just then the room exploded in brightly colored light. Roger slammed his elbow into the base of the other officer's neck, sending him sprawling to the ground before turning his attention to the detective. He grabbed the club and struck the detective's bicep with a sharp blow from his elbow forcing the policeman to release the weapon. Roger slammed the butt of the club into the base of his neck, causing him to fall to the ground.

"What's going on in here?" the plainclothes detective shouted as he entered the room. Roger wasted not a moment in taking him down with a sharp blow to the man's solar plexis. He then struck the landlord across the jaw for good measure. "That should keep you quiet for a while," he said to the unconscious man as he grabbed our trunk.

"Thank you for your hospitality, but I'm afraid it's time we were off," Roger said, scooping up Millie in his arm. He dropped a twenty dollar bill on the floor before the astonished Mrs. Mollock. "For your trouble, Peppi. Now, if you'll please pardon me."

I hooked the heels of my boots onto the metal rails of the ladder and slid down, jogging across the street in time to meet my husband at the door. I gave him a quick kiss, grabbing Millie from him. "That was a fine trick to use the cigarette firework."

"It is what they were meant for."

"Momma, I'm scared," Millie cried.

I smoothed her black curls down the side of her head. "I know, darling, I know. But the scary part is over now."

"Not if we don't find a place to hide before we are spotted," Roger said.

"I know of just the place," I said.

* * *

"Momma look! A piano!" Millie instantly forgot her uncertainty upon sighting the antique instrument. She had always adored grand pianos. "Can we play it?"

"Maybe later, love," I said.

"You always manage to surprise me," Roger marveled as he surveyed the waiting area. "How did you find this place?"

"I had my own little encounter with the police."

"It must have been quite the circumstance that you would come so far from fourth street."

"The officer was an uncommonly clever one. I was very nearly caught."

"But you were not," He smiled slyly.

"Thank the good Lord and a lazy janitor."

Roger brushed his feet across the shell casings and paper wrappings on the floor. "Looks like someone's been using this for their own personal shooting gallery."

"It is a pity, I imagine it was quite opulent when it was new."

I felt a tug at my skirt. "Momma, I'm tired," a little voice whimpered.

"I don't suppose this place has a bed?" Roger said.

"Actually, we are in luck."

Some hours later Roger and I sat on the narrow floor of the rail car, staring at a map of the city by the warm light of a tallow candle while Millie snored softly on the bench seat behind Roger.

"We could cross over this bridge into Brooklyn," I suggested, tracing a path from our location over the Brooklyn bridge.

"Yes, but we'd still be in New York. If we leave the State the police won't be able to follow us."

"They won't?"

"Yes, a peculiarity of the American system. Police are not allowed to cross State lines in their investigations."

"We are not too far from the New Jersey line," I followed a path to set of piers not even a mile from our location, The river they sat upon was sliced in two by a line designating one side New Jersey, and the other, New York.

"It would not be far to Hoboken from there, we could take a train. But how to get across. The distance looks to be a mile, if not a mile and a half. I could swim it, of course, but it might be a bit far for you and Millie. Perhaps we could commandeer a boat..."

I cleared my throat and indicated toward the trunk, its faded gold on brown floral pattern interspersed with the combined letters 'LV' with a tip of my head. "Really Roger, for a man who has traveled the world I would think you would know more about the properties of certain types of luggage. My father did not buy Louis Vuitton because he liked the print."

Roger nodded in understanding. "Watertight. We can put Millie inside and float it across like a boat."

"It won't be so difficult to cross with something to buoy us up. I'm certain I can manage it."

"We'll be less likely to be spotted. But we'll have to wait for shift change, I want as few police officers on the street as possible."

"How long will that be?"

Roger checked his pocket watch, "Two hours. Perhaps you might find some sleep. I'll stay up and keep watch."

"No, I don't think I could sleep after everything that has happened."

"At least lie down, you'll need to rest your legs."

I smiled wanly. "If you insist." At the mention of my legs they roared in renewed protest to being forced to crouch on the floor of the car.

"I do."

I climbed up onto the bench facing my husband and lay down on my side that I might still see him. "What did happen after I left?"

"Now you think to ask?" he said, wryly.

"We had other pressing matters to attend to before." I smiled wanly.

"The landlord opted to wait until Mr. Mollock left for his overnight shift before doing the inspection. I suppose he prefers to terrorize women and children with as little interference from men as possible, the coward. When he and Officer Murtagh couldn't find you the good officer contacted Superintendent Sheehan who, I suppose, ordered a search for you and sent that clown of a lieutenant to interrogate me. You missed a good bit of fun when he found your telegraph stash."

"Oh, I am certain it was quite amusing." Telegraphs to and from Germany and England, nothing suspicious on their face but for that they were all in code. Even the most green police officer would recognize so much gibberish as something of significance, even if he could not understand it. Russell's face swam by in my mind. I jolted back to reality.

"Yes. He actually shoved the tape in my face and demanded..."

I did not catch what he demanded, nor anything else Roger might have said until two hours later when he shook me awake and informed me it was time to leave.

Roger led with Millie and I holding hands behind as we strolled past the still sleeping janitor into the strange gray of morning.

"Now which way to the pier," Roger said, not bothering to hide his true accent. It was a relief to hear him speak normally again.

"Left, down Warren and then right onto West," I answered.

"Hands up or I'll shoot!"

We turned to see Officer Wolfe, his pistol trained on Roger. Roger let the trunk drop to the ground and raised his hands.


	9. Chapter 8

"Hands up!" Officer Wolfe ordered again, I could hear the click of his gun being cocked. I sighed and followed suit raising my hand, Millie did likewise clearly thinking this were some form of new game. "Don't move!" Wolfe sidestepped a wide circle around to face us, weapon still trained on Roger, never once did his intense stare waiver. "Couldn't figure out how you got away from me, until I remembered the old pneumatic tube tunnel." His accent was rough with something of a slur to it, as strangely mixed in its heritage as he was, though very much the same as that which was common to those native to the New York island.

"That weapon really isn't necessary," Roger tried, reverting to his Russian accent.

"I'll say it is. This one already tried that." He jerked his head at me. "Now tell me who you are!"

"Nobody of import."

"Commissioner Sheehan will be the judge of that. You can drop the act, those were British accents you were speaking in. You're not Russians at all are you?"

"I am Russian, she is German."

Wolfe snorted. "What part of Russia are you from then?"

"Minsk."

"Then why do you speak with a St. Petersburg accent?" And certainly he would know the slavic tongue.

Roger's expression faltered slightly.

"I believe he's caught us, dear," I said, no longer bothering with the pretense.

"Whoever you are, I'm taking you in."

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that," Roger said.

"You're in no position to argue."

Roger allowed a slight smile, "Please don't make me put you down in front of my child."

"What makes you think you could? Who are you?"

"In the inner pocket of my waistcoat you'll find a letter that will explain all."

Not taking his gun off of Roger for a moment the officer reached into Roger's waistcoat and extracted the letter from Frank Spencer. The moment he saw the all-seeing eye at the top of the document, he paled, he peered up at us from over the top of the document, his eyes as large as saucers. "You're Pinkertons?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Roger answered. "Now if you wouldn't mind holstering your weapon we might be able to have a proper conversation." Officer Wolfe hurriedly did as he was told. Whatever the reputation of the agency was, it was clear it had preceded us. "Now then, I'm afraid you have us at a disadvantage, you know who we are and we don't yet know your identity."

"Officer Stanislaus Wolfe of the 17th Precinct." He extended a hand. "You can call me Stan."

Roger took it. "James Bond, her Majesty's Secret Service."

"And her? Is she also a Pinkerton? A Brit?"

"Yes. Most importantly, she is my wife. But you may simply call her M."

"I don't feel so bad being outmatched by her then. I was starting to doubt my abilities."

"The mere fact you were able to follow me so far should stand as a testament to them," I said.

"What are you doing in New York?"

"I would think that would be obvious given our movements, I assume you have been briefed," Roger said.

"Something to do with infiltrating the Anarchists."

"Correct."

"Why didn't you come to us and tell us what you were about? You've caused us a lot of grief keeping tabs on you."

"For precisely that reason," I answered. "We needed our act to be convincing. It would not have done for two new anarchists to arrive in the city and enjoy the hospitality of Mr. Mollock without receiving so much as a nod from the police."

"But what is your goal in all of this? Why are the Pinkertons hiring Brits?"

"I'm afraid that is confidential," Roger answered.

"Then I'll have to bring you in."

I grabbed Roger's elbow, hissing into his ear, "I think we should tell him, James."

Roger allowed a good-natured smile. "Now why is that, M?"

"Might it not be useful to have a man in New York?"

Roger thought for a moment. "I think I see what you mean. It would certainly be far easier to telegraph than return if we need further information."

I stepped forward. "We'll tell you, but the knowledge of our mission must not be shared with anyone - neither your Chief nor your priest."

Wolfe's eyes glistened with excitement, he was still young enough that the mere promise of adventure and secret information could entice him into making vows a wiser man would not consider. Any reasonable officer would make the arrest, take us to Captain O'Mara, and be done with the mess rather than further entrench himself. But then, if Wolfe were a reasonable officer he would never have caught us as he had. Clever, certainly, but infected with the boredom that such cleverness often brought on when denied proper germination. "I swear," he said, crossing himself in the Catholic fashion.

"There have been rumors to the affect that Mr. Andrew Carnegie might have been involved in the plot to assassinate Mr. Henry Frick."

"Henry Clay Frick, you mean?"

"Yes, the very same. I wonder, is he always referred to by his full name?" Certainly I knew people for whom such titles, while not obligatory, did seem most natural; still it felt tedious to do so.

"I guess... I've never really given any thought to it. It hits the ear wrong to say Henry Frick. Even the papers write H.C. Frick."

"How very odd. I suppose that is beside the point, though. We are here are the invitations of the Pinkerton Detective Agency to investigate Mr. Carnegie's involvement, if indeed there be any, with the plot."

"But what would they want with British- Because he's been in Scotland." The reason dawned on the officer before he had even completed the question. He had a quick mind, I had to allow that. "Have you found any evidence?"

"Most was ignorant of any of the particulars of the crime beyond what one might glean from the papers," I said.

"There is the matter of some money Miss Goldman claims she received from a man whom she did not know when she attempted prostitution, claimed he only told her she did not have the knack, as it were, and handed her some money. Ten dollars I believe she said," Roger answered.

"That's almost half a month's rent," Wolfe said, his brows knitted pensively. "A lot of money to hand over to a prostitute you've never met before."

"It does seem odd that someone would give so much for nothing."

"Particularly to a stranger," Wolfe continued. "For all he would've known she might have taken the money, then turned around and cut his throat and rolled him for the rest. It'd be insane."

"Unless she was not a stranger at all," Roger spoke, chin bound by his thumb and forefinger.

"True. She may not have known him but he very well may have known precisely who she was," I said.

"But still, why give her the money? How could he have known her lover intended to murder Mr. Frick?" Roger pondered aloud. "Who would have been privy to that information?"

"His cousin, Aaron Stam, for certain," Wolfe said. "Claus Timmermann, maybe? His tongue tends to loosen when he drinks to excess, which is often. Goldman and Berkman employed him to write them a pamphlet to hand out to the Homestead workers. Or Miss Pollack and Mr. Mollock, I know they gave him money. They claim it was to pay back a loan."

"But you don't believe it?" I said.

"Nobody believes it, we just can't prove they were in on it. But, if you ask me, the timing was way too convenient. He knew something was going on, maybe not everything exactly, but Berkman used to spend hours at his place with that Goldman woman - heck, they living with them up until recently - there is no way he didn't know anything. Goldman's former friend Helene Minkin was a lot more forthcoming. She told us in confidence that not only did Mollock know they were buying dynamite but that he allowed them to keep it in the house with the kids." It took me a moment to figure out he was not speaking of young goats, but referring to the children.

"Wouldn't her testimony be enough for a trial?" Roger said.

Wolfe's visage darkened. "Yeah, you would think so, wouldn't you? But apparently she's not a credible witness."

"Why not?" I asked.

He sniffed. "She's Johann Most's lover."

"I thought that was Lena Fischer."

"It was. Now it's Minkin, the way these anarchists cat around with each other it's amazing anyone can keep these things straight. Pardon me, ma'am; I shouldn't have said that in front of a lady."

"Don't worry, I'll be certain to dose myself with smelling salts later," I said wryly. "Continue, please."

Wolfe returned it with the flash of a half smile, and did as I urged. "Mollock has this high priced lawyer, Fay, working his case for free and, as a consequence of that, he's been keeping tabs on Berkman and Goldman as well - trying to keep their cases from intersecting with his client. Hasn't helped him that Berkman refuses a lawyer though this Joseph Friedman and E.D. Moore, from Pittsburgh have had some contact with Fay - seems they have their own clients that they're trying to keep out of prison - so between the three of them they are trying to cut all ties of the web that connects Berkman to their clients. If we put Minkin on the stand Fay'll tear her apart. I believe her. But she's not exactly what you would call stable. Whenever anyone mentions Goldman she just goes on the attack."

Roger nodded in understanding, "So it would appear as though she is making the accusation against them because she's jealous for Most, or envious of Goldman's previous relationship with him."

"Or both," Wolfe said. "And she is, but that doesn't mean she's lying."

"Possible. Did she know who might have supplied the dynamite?"

"No. But she heard that it was someone from Staten Island."

"So there are a number of possibilities of people who might have told the man."

"But of them only two are reasonable suspects," Roger said. "Timmermann and the man who sold the dynamite."

"Why only them?" Wolfe asked.

"Because he is a drunk," I said. "As any writer would he likely have openly voiced his disappointment that his pamphlet had been rendered useless. Assuming his proclivities in choices of drinking establishment are the same as his peers he certainly was overheard and may have spoke of a need to gain monies for a larger plan. However, he, himself, would not be directly involved with the plot and would thus have nothing to lose in it."

"But why the man who sold the dynamite. Wouldn't he not have known about them until after they got the money?"

"While we know the sale occurred after the money was supplied, how would they know how much money they needed to procure if they had not already contacted him? We also know Berkman knew of him prior to purchasing the dynamite. Thus we can conclude Berkman made the necessary inquires and from that Goldman concluded she must sell herself to make up the money. Mollock and Stam are close with Goldman and would certainly not have allowed for her to even contemplate such degradation as prostitution could they have prevented it."

Roger appeared to be deep in thought, his fingers moving with the calculations he was making in his head. Finally, he spoke. "It feels like there is still something missing."

"I'm sure there is, but I'll be darned if I know what it is that four flusher is hiding."

"Well, whatever it may be we shall have to find it out in Pittsburgh, but we really must be on our way, we have dallied too long here. Shift change will be over soon." We turned to leave.

"Wait," Wolfe said. "How do you mean to get out of here with the entire city police force looking for you?"

"We were planning to swim across the Hudson," I said. "If we can make it to New Jersey we should be safe from police attention."

"That's crazy!" Wolfe exclaimed. "With a little girl? And it's freezing cold! Just because it's still summer doesn't mean the water is warm."

"I'm sure we'll manage," Roger eyed the young officer slyly,"unless you have a better suggestion."

"I should smile I do! We have a police boat at the battery, I'll take you across myself."

"Are you certain? If you are spotted with us it could mean the end of your career," I said.

He shrugged. "If they catch us, I'll just turn you in."

Roger and I exchanged smirks. There was no doubt, I could not help but like Officer Wolfe despite all the trouble he had given me.

* * *

"You want to hire him, don't you?" Roger smirked as we watched the water break upon the hull of the ship. Millie was in the small cabin with Wolfe, curled up in our open trunk which served as an excellent bed for her tiny form. "I can see you are veritably chafing at the bit."

"If only he were not American," I said wistfully. "How could I not wish to obtain him? He's young, bright, foolish enough to rush into danger where braver men might quail, and fluent in both English and Slavic. I cannot even begin to tell you how difficult it has been to find anyone, man or woman, who can competently speak both. I have only found one since Veena's attack, and while she certainly has talent, she can hardly be expected to take on the entire Russian front. Just when we need them the most, too."

"He would be quite the acquisition. But for that accent." Roger winced.

"It is quite horrible. I doubt he could disguise it with the queen's English no matter how many years he lived in England. I might as well try to pass off a peacock as a hen."

"Do you truly think we might have a use for him, or did you merely say that so he wouldn't arrest us?"

"One never knows who might prove useful in a case. He does seem to have a fair knowledge of the players and certainly a man inside the police force is nothing to pass up. He already knew what we were, why shouldn't we make an ally of him?"

"Fair point. I'm glad I let him live."

"James!" I playfully swatted his shoulder. "Don't even joke about such things."

"With a pistol pointed at my wife and daughter, I assure you, it was no joke."

"I'm glad you chose the more diplomatic solution."

"As am I. It saved us a swim."

I swatted him again but this time he caught my wrist, pulled me to him, and kissed me. I smiled up at him. "What do you want to do when we arrive in Pittsburgh?"

"I think I should like to take a hotel room for the night, it would not do to meet our hosts in our current state. I, for one, would be glad of a hot bath."

"Oh that does sound lovely."

"And I have missed my wife."

"Not so much as she has missed her husband." I kissed him lightly.

"Hoboken in five minutes!" Wolfe's head and upper torso appeared, hanging from the door of the tug with my little Millie perched upon his shoulders like a collar, grinning from ear to ear while Wolfe held her feet.

"Oboken!" she shouted, fists raised in the air, then releasing a shrill peel of laughter.

Roger gently smiled at the sight, in a manner I guessed was unconscious and likely I was just as guilty of. We both looked to port where the smoke from the steam engines cast a haze over the massive rail yard. Ships and ferries of all sizes still slumbered in their berths at the pier where longshoremen were already carrying large crates of cargo or else packs of line and net for the fishing boats set to launch in the grey gloom before first light. Above the warehouses (though they were truly little more than pavilions) which lined the pier, peeked a steepled turret, but between the dim light and the smoke I could not make out its precise design but that it marked the train station.

"I'll let you off at the shore by 14th street. From there just make the first right and you'll be at the depot in no time."

We pulled beside the shore and Wolfe lay the gangplank.

"Let go of Officer Wolfe, Emily," Roger said authoritatively, holding Millie by her sides and gently trying to extricate her from Wolfe's head.

"No! I wanna stay with Stan!" she insisted, wrapping her arms even more tightly around the young man's face, covering one of his eyes and causing his black hair to stand in all directions.

"It seems you are her new favorite," I laughed at Wolfe's predicament. He smiled through chubby arms and fingers. "Come now Millie, we'll come visit him again soon."

"No! Now!"

Roger's voice was now stern, "Emily Jane, you are making a scene." These words had the effect of causing Millie's grip to loosen as her eyes welled up with tears. Roger lifted her from the policeman's shoulders. "There's a good girl."

"But... wanna stay with Stan..." Big blubbery tears rolled from her eyes to her scarlet cheeks.

"She's really taken with you," I said to Officer Wolfe.

"Why is it all the girls who take a fancy to me are too young?" Wolfe joked. "Hey! Hey!" he said in a rough whisper, poking at her rounded belly. "I've got to get back to work. But you'l see me again soon. Remember what I taught you: The Mantle of Brigid about us,The Memory of Brigid within us,The Protection of Brigid keeping us from harm, from ignorance, from heartlessness. This day and night, from dawn till dark, from dark till dawn."

"From dawn till dark, from dark till dawn," Millie drawled after him. She hadn't slept at all, had she?

"Very good!" he said. "Now, next time I see you, you'll have to show me how much of it you've learned."

Which would be none, I was quite certain. I knew almost nothing of Catholic prayers and even less of Irish ones, which I assumed this was as I recalled Brigid was a saint of some sort to them, and I had already forgotten this one so I would be of no help whatsoever.

"Now say goodbye to Officer Wolfe, Millie," I instructed, taking her from Roger that he might heft the trunk.

"Bye bye, officer Woof!" she waved with both hands.

"Thank you for everything, Officer Wolfe!" I called back with a wave as the police boat chugged away from shore.

"It's Stan!" He shouted back. "Write when you arrive in Pittsburgh!"

I nodded. "Well," I said, turning toward the smoky columns of the rail yard, "On to Pittsburgh."


	10. Chapter 9

I awoke and stretched, enjoying the feel of the dim sunlight as it cast its rays over my arms. Roger lay beside me, snoring lightly, the scars on his side and midsection obscured by sheets. I leaned over and kissed him, whispering in his ear, "I am going down to breakfast."

As I sat myself at the vanity and began my toilet a rough voice arrested me, "Bring me back some eggs."

I glanced over at him, blearily watching me from a half closed eye, the corners of his mouth upturned. "I thought you were asleep."

He slowly propped himself up on his arms. "I was. Until you started moving about. How would you expect me to sleep through that?" Too many years a spy, trained to wake at the slightest movement. "Now be a love and bring me back some eggs."

"Do I look like your maid?" I said, rolling a lock of my hair into a coil and pinning it down. "Fetch your own eggs."

"I should hope my maids didn't go about looking like Gibson girls."

"You know you love it more than even I do."

"I could do without quite so many pins."

"As mother used to say, beauty is pain."

"I believe she meant that for the woman, not the man."

"And why should I be the one to suffer? Are not men the stronger sex? Besides, this style is easier." I pulled down a pair of tendrils by my ears.

"Do you require assistance with your corset?"

"Yes, if you would." I sat down on the bed, my back to Roger, feeling his nimble fingers pulling at the laces. "Not too tight."

"I don't know why you bother with this silly thing," Roger said, the whispery sensation of his fingers tying a bow at the small of my back. "It doesn't even have bones."

"It's the fashion, dear. You wouldn't want men to stare at your immodest wife. And bones are for women who do not have to worry about climbing fire escapes to elude police officers." I slid my day dress over my head. How lovely it was to once more be swaddled in cool linen, instead of the heavy calico I had been forced to endure these past weeks.

"Do try to avoid such troubles this early." Roger smirked.

"Oh, but what if I fancy a morning run?"

Roger playfully swatted at me, narrowly missing my rear as I scooted forward, turning only when I had come to the door. I smiled mischievously. "Don't forget the eggs," he called.

"I'll have the maid bring them up. Have Millie up in a half hour if I am not back."

"You anticipate a long breakfast?"

"I thought I might take a walk, just to collect my bearings."

"Don't go too far. I'd rather you were lost with me than without."

"And what leads you to believe I will be lost? If I could find my way through New York, certainly I should have no trouble with Pittsburgh."

"Beware oh you child of hubris, pride cometh before the fall," Roger teased.

"Half an hour," I warned.

"Be safe," he said, rolling over, pulling the sheets along with him.

* * *

I strolled out from hotel entryway into the morning air following a pleasant breakfast of what Americans called oatmeal. It was quite similar to porridge but that the oats had not been boiled for so long as to lose their shape and texture and did not posses the same soupy texture. Sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar and studded with plump raisins I found it to be less a breakfast than a pudding. The morning sun appeared to be muted, as though being filtered through a window. Gazing up into the sky I could readily discern the cause. The air was filled with a sooty miasma which hovered in its suspended state, neither rising nor settling, making the atmosphere of London seem positively pristine by comparison. Hopefully, wherever Frick lived it was not so bad as this or I might need to send Millie to stay with her uncle for the remainder of the trip - I could not justify exposing her young lungs to such air for long.

I contemplated returning to the room when suddenly- were my eyes deceiving me? There, halfway up the street, I could swear I had see a familiar face pass just between the gap between two people. And if it was who I thought... I hurried down the street, turning the corner just in time to see the back of the specter turn down a side street. I knew that back, the way the waistcoat accentuated his trim form. I trotted quickly to keep pace, staying just below a run, not even taking a moment to consider how preposterous it was to imagine that he would turn up in Pittsburgh of all places. I followed him turn for turn through narrow streets and sooty back alleys until just as suddenly as he appeared he vanished into the plumes of smoke and molton fire.

"Hey! Whadaryou doin' here?" a rough voice bellowed from above. I looked up to see a burly man in coveralls and nothing else standing above on a wooden catwalk. "Get oudda here! Are you crazy, woman!"

Startled from my single minded search I realized I was only a few feet from a river of thick orange streaming from a monstrous vat. Sparks exploded before me as large plumes of steam threatened to engulf me. Instantly all was smoke and fire. Heat threatened to overwhelm me, thick air stung my lungs. I felt a strong force around my waist pull me away from that Vulcan's furnace and into the air. Disorientated, I tried to walk, but tripped and fell against something.

"Woah, steady there," a man's voice said, I felt once more the strong force pulling me. I looked up into the handsome face of a young man of some Eastern European heritage. "I'm guessing you're lost. Looking for your husband?"

"Yes," I said with a cough, my mind grasping for the most plausible explanation.

"What's his name? Maybe we can find him for you."

"It is fine, I can find him myself." I gently pushed myself away from the young man's body, his chest underneath his thin shirt felt as hard as stone. I stumbled slightly and he caught me once more.

"Forgive me if I don't take you word for it, but you did walk right into a blast furnace. I'm guessing this is your first time visiting your husband."

I freed myself from his hold, this time managing to keep my feet. "Yes." I had been so careless of my surroundings I had walked right into a steel mill without even noticing!

"Tell me his name. Chances are I probably know him. I know most of the men in these works."

"Georg," I answered without thinking. "Georg Mueller."

"Georg." He pursed his lips, thinking. "Can't say I've heard that name before. We got a few Muellers. There's one in rolling. I don't know his name. Hey Ralph!" He shouted to the man who was overlooking us on the catwalk. "What's the name of Mueller in rolling?"

"Ted!" the man yelled back. "She ok?"

"Yeah, just lost, lookin' for her husband."

"I wouldn't wanna be him right now then."

"What does he mean?" I asked indignantly as something in Ralph's tone suggested I should be offended.

The young man laughed. "Well you know how it is, a woman only comes to see her husband midshift for one of two reasons, either there's been a death or..." he trailed off.

"Or..." I glared at him, daring him to finish.

He smirked and turned back to the man on the catwalk. "Hey Ralph, you heard of a Georg Mueller?"

"Not in these works. He's probably at Anderson & Woods, across the street."

"Not at these works?" I repeated irritably, now fully immersed in my role as the wronged wife.

"It happens, lots of people get confused on their first visit what with two mills right across from each other."

"I should be off then. Sorry to trouble you mister..."

"Kowalchek. Friends call me Joe."

"Mr. Kowalchek," I said, forcing myself to stifle a curtsy as I left. Kowalchek. What a complicated name. I wasn't even certain how it might be spelled but that my idea of it was probably incorrect. Hopefully there would not be too many complex names, it had been difficult enough in Germany but at least there I was familiar with the language. I knew very little of the Slavic tongue.

"Hey, if he gives you any trouble, you just come right back over here and tell us and me and Ralph'll set him straight," he said with a winning smile, shoving his fist into his palm to illustrate what might become of my philandering husband were he and Ralph to meet him.

"Thank you, but I believe I can handle him myself," I said confidently, turning toward the other mill. "Good day to you gentlemen, thank you for your assistance."

"I wouldn't want to be that man," I heard Mr. Kowalchek say to Ralph as I walked away. "Not if you paid me."

I was glad to be out of danger but now recognized my predicament. In following that man I had become inexorably lost in a city of towering unfamiliar buildings. And what was the name of our hotel? It was something strange that even Roger had found a challenge to pronounce. It had begun with an M, that much I recalled. The name had not seemed important at the time given that we were only staying the one night before going on to the Frick Estate. I remembered seeing the lights from barges on the water as we walked so it must have been near the river. Now if only I knew in what direction that was I might begin to make some progress. I would have to just attempt to retrace my steps. This proved easier contemplated than done. I should have paid more attention to my surroundings. I had thought I had made a left coming down the street, but perhaps it had been a right? Or was it even this street? The way the road bent I couldn't be certain. Perhaps I had not turned here at all but believed myself to have been traveling a straight path. I would have to find my way soon or Roger would wonder what had become of me and I could not bear to give him the satisfaction that he had been right.

As I passed near a newsstand I overheard a man saying, "Did you see here, they found a head floating in the Youghiogheny river." I turned to see two men in suits and bowler hats standing by the stand. The one in the dark green bowler and waistcoat was reading the newspaper while the other, apparently his friend, was content to watch the people go by.

"A head?" the man in brown asked.

"Yes, a head," the man with the paper answered, his eyes fixed on a lower column of the front page. The Pittsburg Dispatch I read upon the drooping corner of one of the later pages.

"A human head?"

"Of course a human head, would be much news if it was a deer." I wondered how often deer heads were found that this would be unremarkable.

"Where did they find it?"

"McKeesport."

The name of the place did not seem to startle the man in brown in the least for instead of remarking upon it he simply asked another question. "Do the police have any idea who it was?"

"Not a clue."

"The Monster of the Mon strikes again."

"Sounds like it." His eyes shifted to another column. The Monster of the Mon? There was something quite ominous in the way they said the name, as though it were a mere fact of life, worth a quick remark and then dropped despite the ghastly crime he had just laid upon the beast (for I could not be certain if it were person or animal to which the name referred). "Look here, Pinkerton detectives infiltrated the Amalgamated Association."

"Really?" The man in brown peered over the arm of the other to see the story.

"It says here they pretended to be members of the Duquesne chapter, they even had fake union cards. The Amalgamated men never suspected them until the moment they testified."

"I'll give that's a piece of work. Who were they testifying against?"

"Some no names for aggravated riot."

"Serves them right. Enough of that though, how'd we do against the Giants?"

"One paper please," I said, handing the man at the shop a coin. I read the story of the amalgamated spies carefully. It was as the man had said, aggravated riot. Two Pinkerton agents had infiltrated the group and revealed themselves to testify as witnesses in an aggravated riot case against three men. The defendants were not so much no names as the man with the green bowler had said, but I questioned whether they were of high enough rank to warrant what would be the revelation not only of the identity of the undercover Pinkertons, but that there had been undercover detectives in their midst. While I was given to understand there was a great deal of animosity held by the Pinkertons over the Homestead incident and that such feelings might lend them to be willing to testify in any case that could be made, but was aggravated riot enough to reveal themselves over? The connection of the riot with Duquesne Amalgamated Vice President Carney notwithstanding. It would only be that much harder to bring detectives in as spies. Unless their spies were already in place, well entrenched, and now what was needed was a public act to sow distrust among the union members. The Pinkertons were not against sacrificing two pawns to gain the advantage over their opponent. The Poet had requested our assistance, perhaps he was among those who had infiltrated the union's ranks. I folded the paper and tucked it under my arm with my umbrella. I needed to show Roger what I had found. If only I knew which way to go.

Our hotel had not been far from a rail station. If I only followed the rail line I should find my way fairly quickly. I could not have gone so far in such a short time. Now if only I could find the rail line. Perhaps if I retraced my way to the factory, I had noticed a number of rail cars there. It would stand to reason they would attach to the main line. But even then I found I was not quite up to the task, though I did discover the rail line after a number of turns it seemed my direction was inexorably off for, instead of ending at the station we had come in on, I quickly found myself at the mouth of a tunnel. To my right high, thick stone walls loomed not quite concealing a large, almost windowless stone building surrounded by towers and turrets like some strange combination of cathedral and castle. The stones were still pale, not as encrusted with black soot as many of the other buildings around them, but still long stains of blackened filth streamed from the windows like tears. I could see a gate with two men in uniform standing nearby. This was a prison!

I ducked over to the other side of the street, from there I could see a bridge leading across the street from the jail to a monstrous building with a great belltower like structure to rival Big Ben in size. If the first building was the jail then this must be the courthouse with it's very own bridge of sighs, like that in Venice. I continued toward the massive stone edifice of the courthouse. Through one of the large arches I could see, through the black wrought iron gates, a large courtyard with a fountain flowing in the center and men in suits walking to and fro. One sat on the fountain ledge writing on a legal pad, crossing words out and writing in new ones, probably preparing his summation. I was tempted to try and find the entrance that I might go in. I had always enjoyed the drama of the courthouse. I could still remember the thrill I felt the first time I was called to testify as an agent of her majesty's secret service, the way my legs and voice had shook before the barrister in his powdered wig, the growing confidence in my chest as he asked me how I knew the woman in question was seditious, the calm inwhich I laid out my findings. The triumph when I could see by the expression on his face he knew his case had been summarily destroyed. None of the barristers wore wigs here, nor did they appear to be carrying them and they seemed not to have robes either, only suits. I wondered if they even wore hats during the case or did they argue bareheaded? Did the judges also not wear wigs and robes. I was terribly curious.

"Pardon me ma'am, but are you lost?" I turned to see a thin middle aged man addressing me. His face was sharp and gaunt, though he carried a dignified air about him that was at once stern and humble.

"Oh, yes. Would you be able to assist me? I was out for a walk and I seemed to have gotten turned around."

The man smiled. "You did have that look about you. Most women who walk through that quarter don't dress so well. You are quite lucky no one tried to do you harm. Is this your first time visiting the city?"

"Yes."

"Are you staying with family or friends? We might be able to contact them from my office. It's only just around the corner."

"I am here with my husband, we were lodging at an inn, but I cannot recall the name."

"There are quite a number of inns, do you remember anything specific that might narrow it down?"

"It was by the rail station, not far from the river. I remember the name was strange, I word I had never heard before."

"The Monongahela House." he said.

"Yes!" I cried. "That is the name, Ma-non-ga..."

"Hela. Don't worry yourself about it too much, few people outside of the region have ever heard the word."

"Is it French?"

"Iroquis, I believe. They were an Indian tribe that once inhabited the region. The Allegheny and Ohio rivers also retained their original Indian names."

"And the Yock-oh-gain-ee?" I said the word slowly, trying to repeat it just as the other man had said it.

The man chuckled. "Odd that you would know the Youghiogheny river before the Monongahela."

"I heard someone mention it in passing."

"Well, I doubt you will have the chance to see it, it is a good deal southeast of the city. Anyhow, I am familiar with the Monongahela House and as my first client will not be in for another hour I would be glad to escort you there."

"I would hate to put you out," I replied. The one thing worse than admitting I had been lost would be returning with a guide because I could not find my way. "If you simply direct me in the way to go, I am certain I will be able to find my way, mister..."

"Oh, I do apologize, Mr. Alexander Gilfillan, at your service. And what might your name be?"

"Mrs. Roger Norbert."

"Ah, well, Mrs. Norbert, at least let me take you as far as Smithfield street, it's a straight walk from there. The turn from Diamond can be a bit tricky if you don't know it and then you might be worse off than when you began."

"Thank you, Mr. Gilfillan, I believe I will take you up on your offer."

We had only walked a short distance before Mr. Gilfillan struck up friendly conversation. "You needn't worry too much, I daresay everyone gets lost their first time in the city, sometimes even many times after, it is a difficult town to navigate. The geography has done little to help the matter. You will become used to it if you stay at the Monongahela House long."

"Oh no, we were only staying the night. We will be traveling to Point Breeze today to stay with our hosts. We merely arrived late yesterday and did not with to trouble them."

"That was very considerate of you. Who will you be staying with?"

"A Mr. Frick and his family at their estate," I answered, knowing those words would bring about one of two reactions. Mr. Gilfillan's visage darkened perceptibly. "Have I said something troubling?" I asked.

"It is nothing Mrs. Norbert, only that this might not be the best time to visit."

"With that horrible strike business? Yes, I heard. But we have been assured it is practically done with."

Mr. Gilfillan made a bit of a harumph sound but offered nothing further. He must have been well heeled that he was able to resist the urge to comment further.

"If you don't mind my asking, have you ever met Mr. Frick?" I pried.

"A handful of times."

"What was your impression of him?"

"To be perfectly honest I found him to be quite personable. He is an avid art collector, but not in the way of some who care more for names than the works. Though, I must confess, I have only ever seen him socially so I could not hazard a guess as to how he behaves when conducting business."

"Then you think him to be a good man?"

"I did not say that, though I wish I could. But between the business with the flood and now the strike... it is rather complicated. I think many would tell you the same. These past three year have done nothing for his reputation. Still, we are all thankful for his full recovery and were sorry to hear of the loss of his son. This is Smithfield. Are you certain you do not wish me to go the rest of the way with you?"

"Oh no, thank you, Mr. Gilfillan, but I thought I might do some window shopping while I walk and I would hate to delay you further from your duties."

"Then it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Norbert, if you find you are in need of the services of an attorney, do not hesitate to call."

"Thank you, Mr. Gilfillan. Good day to you."

He tipped his hat to me and then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

"That was quite a long stroll," Roger teased as Millie rushed to greet me with an embrace. He was reclining his chair somewhat from a desk where he sat with The Poet's letter at the center of the desk beside a cup of tea, under which a map of the city rested.

I lifted her up into my arms, holding her as I returned, "I decided to see the courthouse and the jail. They are really quite impressive structures. Did you make sure Millie ate her breakfast?"

"Most of it, but for what is now embellishing my shirt." He opened his waistcoat to show a large, wet, golden stain on his white shirt.

"It serves you right for wearing your good shirt."

"I did hear quite an interesting story as I was passing by the kitchens," he said, buttoning his waistcoat once more.

"Oh, what about?"

"Apparently, just before our arrival they had the strangest guest. He arrived with a medium sized black valise under the name of John Rogers and stayed a number of days. A few of the maids remarked that he was quite the continental and rather handsome. Apparently he made quite the impression on the other guests, and, unfortunately the clerk who felt he was acting suspiciously. When they asked him to settle his debts it was found he could not pay."

"Oh dear. Did they have him arrested?"

"No, he swore that if his father were appealed to that the elder man would cover the bill."

"I can imagine that did not go over well with the father."

"No, it certainly did not. The father agreed to wire the money but instead arrived on the Tuesday train."

"Oh what a pity we missed it," I said, only half listening as I fought Millie's nightgown off.

"Well, this is where the story takes a strange turn. It seems when they went to clean the room they found the black valise, and do you know what they found when they opened it?"

"Clothing and toiletries, I would imagine." I said, pulling Millie's frock over her head.

"You would think, but no, it was a key."

"A key?"

"Yes, to another hotel in the city where he stayed under the name of Charles Franklin."

"Very curious," I was now giving Roger my full attention.

"I thought you might find it intriguing."

"Did he leave without paying the bill there as well?"

"Of course."

"So there was only the key in the valise?"

"No. There were also several opened personal letters to a Rev. Paul Sifford, several of which were from young women."

"Rev. Paul Sifford?"

"Yes, but no one on staff seems to know who that could be."

"Probably another alias," I said. "But not a good one for a young man. You said his father came to bring him home, was he local? Perhaps those were meant for the father?"

"That's just the thing of it, the father, a Mr. Burton, owns a printing establishment in Brooklyn. They were from Connecticut and apparently, quite well off, so there was no reason the young man should have been acting in such a manner at all."

"That is very strange. Do you think he may have been serving as a courier?" I suggested.

"It would appear likely, though for whom is more complicated."

"If I were to guess the anarchists are the first to mind. Berkman did spend a fair amount of time in Connecticut."

"He did, but this is far too organized for their ilk."

"I wish we had those letters," I said, plopping down on the bed with my chin resting upon my hands.

"I know, I did make an inquiry but they have already been transferred to police custody to be held for the reverend, whomever he may be."

I grimaced. "It would be difficult to obtain those letters without revealing ourselves."

"You know we will have to soon, anyhow. This isn't New York, we will require police cooperation. Or, at the very least, for them to look the other way at times."

"True. Oh by the way, while I was out I purchased a paper for you. I thought you might find the story on the front page interesting." I tossed the newspaper on top of the letter. Picking up the hairbrush from the vanity I began brushing Millie's hair, from the bottom tips to the top as a groom would a horse's tail to remove tangles with the least amount of pain. It was amazing how much her hair could come to resemble a bird's nest in only one night of sleep.

Roger took a sip from his tea and picked up the paper. "The Moravia brings a cargo of plague," he read.

"No, the other side."

He smirked and I knew in an instant he was toying with me, probably in revenge for being so long gone. "Pinkerton men in their camps," he read the headline aloud before lapsing into silence to read, his cup perched just below his lips. "Interesting." he said, placing the paper back on the table. "Very interesting. They revealed themselves over a rioting case."

"I thought the same. There was also an interesting little piece about a head being found in the river. The men who were talking beside the stand said it might have been done by someone or something they called The Monster of the Mon."

Roger smiled. "You wish to visit the morgue?"

"Of course."

"It's not our case."

"It very well might be related."

"Always looking for an excuse to ply your skills." He put the paper down. "Well, you will have to wait until we meet with the Poet. We'll need him to vouch for us."

"When will we?"

"Anxious to begin?"

"Heads don't last for long." I said, raising my brows.

"On Saturday, if all goes as planned." He stood, rolling up the letter within the map (upon which I observed a circular stain from the tea cup around the tip of land where three rivers converged). "Well, no sense in delaying any further, let us be off to Point Breeze."


	11. Chapter 10

As we were leaving Roger stopped by the desk to request they telephone Mr. Frick of our intended arrival. The train station was only a brief walk from the hotel and Millie enjoyed pointing at the boats moored upon the wharf. A riverboat chugged lazily by along the river, paddle wheels churning up waves as they rolled along. Roger knelt down next to Millie, pointed, and whispered something in her ear, she turned to me with glee, pointing at the sky. "Momma, look, it's an eagle!"

I looked to the sky to see a great white-headed bird circling above. "That's a bald eagle, is it not Roger?" I asked. "Roger?" I turned to see him just standing up from beside a series of cement pipes. I cocked my head to the side. "Roger what are you doing?"

He brushed the sandy soil from his knees. "I thought I heard a kitten. But it was only the breeze through the pipe."

"The breeze you say?" I regarded him with an arched brow. Millie shrieked with delight, jumping up and down and jerking my hand and attention back to her. There was a great splashing and I saw the eagle rise slowly from the water, a large fish held securely in its talons.

"Momma, it caught a fish!"

"Yes it did, dearest."

"Now where is it going?" she asked as the large bird flew off over an inclined railcar as it climbed the massive sheer cliff that towered over the other side of the river.

"Probably back to its nest to feed its babies." I had no idea whether or not this was the correct explanation, only that it was the one which would make her happiest and that was all that was important.

As we walked to the station I held out my hand to Roger and, without glancing at him, asked, "Might I see the map, darling?"

"I'm sorry dear, I don't know what you are talking about."

I turned a haughty eye toward my husband. "Oh," I said, "I thought I had seen you had one earlier."

"You must have been mistaken," he said with not the least indication that he was attempting to deceive upon his face.

I laughed inwardly as I replied, "Yes, I suppose I must have been." He flashed a smile at me which I returned.

* * *

The train ride to Point Breeze was mercifully short when compared against the one we had from Hoboken the day before. By now, the novelty of trains had worn off for Millie and she contented herself to sleep for the ride. "Loughlin Station!" the conductor called.

"This is our stop," Roger said. He picked up the dozing Millie and hefted her onto his shoulder, his cane in the other hand. I was thankful the porter would take care of out trunks, for their were quite a few of them and it was not at all ladylike for a woman to carry a bag larger than a reticule let alone a trunk. On our arrival the station agent handed Roger a small, folded piece of paper which he stuck in his waistcoat pocket.

"Lord and Lady Roger Norbert?" a voice called as we exited the station. A well dressed man stood, whip in hand, before a large black coach with lines as fine and elegant as those of the horse which pulled it.

"Yes," Roger answered.

"Mr. Frick has sent me to fetch you."

"Very good," Roger said.

"Mrs. Frick has suggested I take you by way of Schenley Park as she says the scenery is quite lovely this time of year."

"If that is what she suggests then I would love to see it," I said to Roger in the manner of a traditional wife who would never dream of doing anything without first asking her husband.

Roger smiled indulgently and drew me to him. "Of course, darling, if that is what you wish."

The coachman loaded our luggage onto the coach. "Would you prefer I roll up the sides that you might enjoy the air?" he asked.

"Certainly," Roger said, I could detect the change in his tone to the slightly higher lilt of the character of Lord Norbert. "I imagine the coach can become somewhat stifling in the heat."

The coachman nodded, evidently well aware that his position was not one where he was expected to offer his opinion, only to confirm what had been said. He quickly went about, rolling up the leather side and tying the rolls with the dark sashes that hung from near the roof.

Roger guided me up the steps into the body of the coach. Millie attempted to clambor up after me but Roger scooped her up and handed her to me. "Now Emily, we don't climb onto the carriage," he chided her. "You don't mind if I ride up front, do you?" Roger asked the coachman who nodded in assent. He climbed to the front, cracked the whip, and we were off.

"Is this the park?" I asked after a few minutes, leaning over the back of the driver's seat so I could better address the coachman as we traveled down the forest-lined avenue at a neat clip

"No," he almost shouted over the loud clopping of the horses hooves over the pavement. "We'll turn into the park in a quarter of a mile."

We turned from the road onto what quickly turned from a proper street to little more than a glorified footpath, with grass growing up the center where carriage wheels and sharp hooves would not crush. "Momma! Deer!" Millie pointed excitedly at the river where a half dozen deer were, some standing, some lying in the shade. Indeed there was a great deal of wildlife to occupy her attentions, from a large ring-necked pheasant to a turkey with a clutch of no less than ten large striped chicks following her.

"Poults, they are called," Roger supplied in response to Millie's shrieks of joy at the giant baby chickens.

As I gazed out over the trees I noticed a thin column of black smoke curling its way into the sky. "Driver," I asked, "are there any houses in these woods?"

"A few old cabins but hardly anyone lives here anymore since the city bought all the land. They want to turn it into an English style park."

"Is there a cabin over there?" I pointed to the area where the smoke was emanating from.

The driver glanced over to where I indicated, and then looked again as if to be sure his eyes were not deceiving him. "That's the old Martin place. That's strange, I thought it had been vacant for years now. It must be the workmen from the new conservatory they are building."

A bolt of shock thrilled through me at the name. Even after all these years it still affected me. "They are building a conservatory?"

"Yes, just up the road. I can take you by if you like and you can see the progress they are making."

"Would it be long?"

"It would probably add another twenty minutes to the drive."

I looked to Roger who shook his head. "I'm sorry, perhaps another time," I said.

Ten minutes on we had cleared the park and were now passing by grand houses perched on the rolling hills of farmland. "That house back there belongs to Mrs. Watson," the driver narrated. "And all the land you see before you is the property of the Murdoch family. I could see a large glass building rising among the trees to my right. "That greenhouse belongs to Mr. John Murdoch and his brother. They have a florist shop over on Smithfield. I'll take you by way of Murray Hill if you like, so you can see the new houses they're building."

Millie tired quickly of the houses, leaning her round face against the coach edge and sullenly watching the world go by, only coming to life when we would pass a dog or a particularly interesting horse. Interesting to her mind meaning spotted, whether arranged in speckles or splotches, for she so rarely had seen such markings and thought they were more beautiful than any horse in our stable; I could already see Roger's mind whirring as to how he might obtain one for her and secret it away to England without her knowing that he might surprise her.

* * *

As we traveled down a boulevard of mansions the like of which I had rarely seen (and certainly never so many in one place) the driver turned to Roger. "We're almost there. Would you like me to drive you around the park?"

"Yes." Roger nodded. "I should like to see the property."

The coach moved swiftly along the tree lined street as the driver cracked the whip, bringing the horses to a trot. The grounds were immaculately tended and I expressed as much. "The gardener will be glad to hear you think so."

"What's that wooded area over there?" Roger indicated to a grassy plane of gently sloping hillocks the seemed to suddenly vanish into forest.

"That's Frick Park. I daresay you'll find the children playing there more often than not in the summer. You see where the trees are?" I nodded. "The whole thing drops into a ravine with a stream running through it. I'm sure they'll show you themselves. Mr. and Mrs. Frick are very fond of taking walks down there almost any day the weather's fine. He intends to buy the entire park." We turned a corner, to our left rose a vast estate centering around a grand mansion of fantastic design. Even Millie, who up until this point could not be bothered to attend to the architecture, was transfixed by the sight though it was not much different in size from our own home in Cumberland.

"Is that the house of Mr. Frick?" I asked.

"That? No, that is the house of Mr. Andrew Carnegie. But he isn't home, I'm afraid. He's away to Scotland on a hunting trip. There is Clayton." He pointed to our right where a collection of oddly arranged sharp rose-colored roofs and beige chimney poked their way through a smattering of trees. Even from this distance it was clear the house was not nearly so grand in size as its neighbors.

"Is it a rather old property?" Roger asked.

"The original house is, but they've only just finished having it remodeled."

I could see clearly what Roger was thinking: So this hodgepodge of turrets and chimneys was intentional. We turned the corner down a wide road, I watched as the strange little house grew closer. It was large, now that it might be more clearly seen, but not nearly to the level of some of its peers. It was more an overgrown house, looking as though a simple Italianate affair had been taken and stretched and distended by one who wished to transform it into a palace until it could neither be called one thing nor the other but some strange new creation. An architectural chimera.

Thick stone balustrades decorated with large, open quatrefoils ran along the side of a large staircase which led to a covered veranda of rustico design that reminded me some of the cafes Roger and I had frequented on our honeymoon, and then also around the side of a sizable turret terminating at the pale white porte cochere.

"I am pleased to see they have not neglected to connect their porte cochere to the house," Roger said.

"Yes, Lord Norbert, Mr. Frick was very particular that none of his guest should ever have to risk a moment of rain."

"Does it often rain, then?"

A slight scowl flitted across the driver's face. "Very frequently. Two years ago it seemed all it would ever do was rain. It's been better this year. Though, if you do not have one already, I would recommend investing in a good umbrella."

"Or umbrella manufacturer," I whispered to Roger, who had to cough to stifle a laugh.

"Today should be fine, and yesterday was dry as well, so you may wish to visit the park after supper."

As we drove up the driveway, I saw a side door open out of the corner of my eye and a ball bounce out. A white and brown speckled dog shot out from the portal after the ball with a young boy close on his heels. "Brownie! Wait!" the boy shouted. But he was too late and the dog bolted in front of the carriage.

"Childs!" a woman cried.

The horse reared, it's hooves pawing the air in alarm, jostling the carriage. I grabbed for Millie. I saw the boy dive for his dog, covering it with his body, pulling it back with him away from the hooves as they both rolled. The driver gripped the reins and threw them hard to the side, causing the horse to turn that it's sharp hooves landed beside the boy. The driver leapt from his seat, grabbing the beast's harness and yanking it down. "Master Childs, are you hurt?" he demanded.

The boy looked up at the driver, his blond hair tousled. "Bully!" he said, grinning, revealing a gap where his upper canine should have been.

"Childs!" a homely, round face Irish woman in a black dress ran up to him. She began fussing over him, poking and prodding his thin frame and face. "Now you know better than to chase after that dog," she scolded. "You could have been hurt!"

"I'm fine," he said, trying to bat her away. She seemed to have noticed something for she grabbed his pointed chin. Looking directly into his face. "Really I am!"

"Master Childs, your tooth!" she exclaimed, looking as though she might faint.

"It was just a baby tooth," the gap whistled as he spoke. "It was loose anyway."

"Oh you're mother will be so upset, young man."

"Please, you don't need to tell her, Miss Coyne," the boy begged.

But it was too late for that, I heard the pounding of someone running down the stairs. A lovely young woman with hair much the same shade of blond as my own appeared in the doorway, a pale white dress hung from her waifish form and wan features giving her an almost ghostly appearance. "Childs!" she cried, clasping a hand over her heart. She rushed to him, kneeling beside him and gathering him up to her breast as though he were much younger than the child he was (for certainly he had to be at least eight). "Oh my darling boy!" she smoothed his hair repeatedly, caressing his cheeks. "Are you hurt?"

"No mother," he said.

"How could you be so reckless?" the woman who was Mr. Frick's wife asked. Tears flowing from her eyes. I could see the boy, Childs, blinking as they splashed upon his face. "After we have lost so much, I cannot bear to lose you too. It would be the end of me." She pulled Childs into a tight embrace.

"I'm sorry mother, I'm sorry." I could see the boy was now crying as well. The dog, noticing their distress, came up and started licking their faces. The boy grasped his dog's furry coat. "I didn't want Brownie to get hurt."

She pulled him out to face her. "Dogs are replaceable, you are not," she said, smoothing back the side of his hair. "Promise me you will be more careful."

"I promise mother."

"Very good." she stood, brushing herself off and pulling her son up with her. "Now go inside, your father will decide your punishment later."

"Oh please don't tell papa!" he begged.

"That is enough. I don't want to hear another sound from you until supper."

The boy looked dejectedly toward the ball. "Yes mother," he said. He turned and walked back to the house with his head hung low. "Come on Brownie," he said dejectedly. At the sound of his name the dog wagged his long tail and panted happily. He grabbed the ball in his mouth and trotted after his master.

The woman turned toward us and managed a drawn smile, the type a lady might make when she was clearly put out but unable to shirk her social obligations. "I do apologize for my son, Childs. He is young. I hope he has not caused you too much trouble or discomfort."

"Not at all," Roger replied cheerily, gesturing to Millie who was watching after where the dog had just gone. "As you can see, we have one of our own."

"Ah, Emily, isn't it?" Millie did not make any motion to acknowledge her proper name had been recognized. "She is just lovely. How old is she?"

"Millie is three," I supplied, taking my wriggling child in my arms and turning her to face the strange woman.

"How lovely. Our daughter, Helen, is four. They can share the nursery. I know Helen would like that. Might I hold her?"

"Of course," I handed Millie down to Mrs. Frick who proceeded to run her fingers through Millie's hair.

"Such lovely black hair, and such dark eyes," she said, admiringly.

"Yes, just like her father," I said with a glance over to my husband. How lucky Millie had been to take after him.

"I apologize, my husband will be down in a minute, he is packing. If you would like to join me in the sitting room?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Frick." I said. Roger nodded.

"Please, do call me Adelaide."

As we stepped into the house I found myself staring at the fine decoration of the hall. Given the outside of the house I had expected it to be far more ostentatious, but instead there was a simple opulence about it. Polished wood panels, intricately carved, lined the walls, even the doors and the underside of the stairs that rose above our heads.

"You said Mr. Frick was packing for a trip. Where is he going?" Roger asked.

"Oh I do apologize, we tried to reach you but your brother said you had gone to New York and he was unable to give a forwarding address. Yes, Henry has been called away on business to inspect our display for the Exhibition in Chicago. He had hoped you would arrive before he left."

"When is he leaving?"

"At about half past one." A well dressed man with a thick brown beard said, snapping closed his pocket watch as he descended the stair. His suit was cut so as to minimize how slight his form was though I could see as he walked, the awkward pull of the thick fabric - far thicker than the hot weather called for. Except for what was covered by his beard, I could see in his face the reflection of the young boy from the yard. Particularly about the eyes, they shared a certain puffiness about their eyelids that created an interesting line above and below, not quite a protuberance but noticeable from the perspective of family resemblance. The beard, much like the suit, was likely to counter what nature had given him.

"Sir, I must protest. It is not safe for you to go to Chicago." A large, burly man with features of no note beyond that they were plain said as he clamored down the stair after Mr. Frick. "You have only just returned from Castalia. What would your doctor say? You shouldn't even be out and about given all you've been through."

"The doctor has cleared me to travel and I intend to do so."

"How much did you pay him?" the other man mumbled.

"What was that?" Frick's head snapped sharply in the direction of the other man. It was clear he knew precisely what the other had said and was giving him the chance to correct himself.

"I said, not Chicago, though, it's a hotbed for socialists. Let someone else go instead."

"Detective, it has been six years since Haymarket. I'll be in no more danger there than I am here," Mr. Frick said calmly. "There is no one else who can better decide what is to represent my company than myself. I will not leave my fate and that of my businesses to the hands of others."

"But you know the sister of one of the Haymarket bombers is the lover of Johann Most," the man argued. I regarded Roger with raised brow.

Mr. Frick stopped at the bottom of the stair and turned sharply upon the man. "Can you not see there are ladies present? I will not have you speak of such a base subject in front of my company, nor give my wife undo reason to worry. If you ever expect to have a successful career in politics, I would suggest the first thing you should learn is to pay attention to those around you, Det. McTighe. You have made your objections, strenuously, and they have been noted. If there is nothing else you have to say, I suggest you might either see Mr. Spencer about lunch or else make other arrangements. We will leave for the station at one." Detective McTighe sputtered, but finding nothing else to say, disappeared behind a door I guessed led to the kitchen from the smell of cooked fowl emanating from it.

"Now then. Mr. Henry Clay Frick at your service," he said, extending a hand to Roger.

"Lord Roger Norbert, how do you do?"

"Quite well. I see you have already met my wife Adelaide."

"Yes, she has been quite gracious. This is my wife, Mina, and our daughter, Millie."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance Mrs. Norbert," Frick directed a slight bow to me then he did something I would never have expected him to do. He knelt down on one knee that he might be at eye level with my daughter and smiled warmly. "Millie was it?" he said, she nodded. "I am Mr. Frick. Pleased to meet you." He extended a hand to her. She nervously looked to Roger who nodded his head. Assured that it was safe, Millie timidly placed her small hand in his and he shook it lightly. He stood, straightening his coat. "I do apologize for the circumstances. Adelaide, could you tell the nurse to have Helen made ready for lunch?"

"Yes dear." She approached her husband and kissed him on the cheek. "Before you go would you speak with Childs?" she said quietly.

Mr. Frick stiffened. "What has the boy done this time?" he replied just as quietly though his tone brokered no warmth as his smile had a moment ago.

She leaned in, whispering in Mr. Frick's ear the details of what had transpired with the coach. I could see his visage darken with every word she spoke.

"And he is in his room now?" Mrs. Frick nodded. "If you will excuse me, I must attend to a family matter." Mr. Frick turned and went back up the stair. I felt a sinking in my stomach with his every step. A few minutes later Mr. Frick came down with the young boy in tow, his blond head hung low. "I believe Childs has something he would like to say to you."

The boy didn't even glance up at us but kept his eyes on his shoes. "Sorry, Mr. Norbert, Mrs. Norbert. I was being careless."

"Good Childs. Now, go to the breakfast room and pull up a chair for your sister and the young Miss Norbert."

"Yes, papa." Childs turned toward the door by an ornate grandfather clock leading to a smaller room.

"And stand up straight." Inwardly I winced at his words. How many times had I heard similar from my own father to myself and Jet, often followed by a whack from his walking stick. Not in company, however. I wondered if Childs knew the same pain.

"Yes papa." The boy corrected his posture.

"I apologize for our son. Sometimes it is hard to believe his is almost ten by the way he acts." Ten? I had thought him at least three years younger, so slight and small was he.

"You told your son to pull up chairs for the girls?" Roger asked. "Will we be lunching in the dining room?" I had wondered the very same. Of course it was customary to impress a guest with small extravagances, but as we would be staying for some time, was that not somewhat excessive? Millie was certainly accustomed to taking her meals in the nursery the same as any other child.

"Oh yes, that may seem a bit odd to you. I know it is customary for children to eat separately but I find it makes the meal infinitely better to have the children with us."

"Papa!" a tiny soprano voice cried from the stair landing. We all looked to see a tiny angel with a halo of golden curls and the same eyes as her father and brother being led by the hand by her nurse.

"Ah Helen, my darling." Mr. Frick climbed the steps and took the little girl into his arms. "I have some friends I would like you to meet. This is Mr. Norbert, and this is Mrs. Norbert." He swung Helen toward each of us. "And this is their daughter, Millie."

"Down papa!" she said. He put her down in front of Millie, who, though she was a year older than my daughter they were almost exactly the same size, if Helen was not slightly shorter. She put her hands on Millie's shoulders and looked up in childish ecstasy. "She looks just like my dolly."

"She does, doesn't she?" Mr. Frick laughed.

"Do you want to play with my dolls?" Helen asked Millie.

Millie nodded. "Yes. Thank you." I was relieved that in the excitement she had not forgotten her manners.

Helen shrieked. "Papa, she talks so pretty! Yes, thank you" she repeated, trying to imitate my daughter's accent. "I like the way to talk."

Millie smiled. "I like the way you talk too."

"I can teach you how to talk like me."

"Me too," Millie said eagerly.

"Alright girls, it's time for lunch, perhaps you can teach each other to speak later in the park."

Helen's eyes grew wide. "The park?"

"It hasn't rained so we can have a nice walk in the park after lunch, what do you think?"

"Oh yes, papa! Come on, I'll show you Childs's teepee." She grabbed Millie's hand and started to pull her to the door.

"After lunch, Helen," Mr. Frick repeated.

"Oh. Yes. Here, let me show you where we eat." She pulled Millie toward the room Childs had just entered.

Mr. Frick rubbed his hands together. "Well no sense delaying. Shall we?"

We entered into the breakfast room. I was surprised to see two high chairs set beside the table. "Ah here we go," Mr. Frick picked up Helen and sat her in the high chair closest his seat.

She pointed her thin arm at the other chair. "Put Millie in Martha's chair."

I saw Mr. Frick shut his eyes, slowly allowing them to reopen. He took a deep breath and smiled in that way a parent does when disguising their feelings from their child. "Yes, that is a very nice idea, Helen." Roger picked up Millie and sat her in the chair Helen had designated Martha's.

"Millie can be my sister now."

"Oh!" Mrs. Frick exclaimed. She clutched her hand to her heart, he face paled to an even whiter shade. "Oh. I'm sorry," she turned from the room, "I'll only be a moment," she said as she quickly left the room. Mr. Frick stood stoically.

Roger and I regarded each other. I knew they had recently lost a child, Mr. Gilfillan had said as much, but had that not been a son? Perhaps there had been another? It could not have been too long ago for Helen to remember her. I noticed Childs looking miserably down at his empty plate.

"Childs, sit up straight," Mr. Frick scolded. Childs did as he was told.

"Childs?" I ventured. "That was a fine dog I saw you with earlier, what was his name?"

"Brownie," he said.

"Seems a fitting title given his spots."

"Yeah."

"Yes." Mr. Frick corrected.

"Yes." Childs parroted.

A moment later Mrs. Frick returned, her eyes underlined in red. She smiled. "Well then, shall we?"

We dined on a lunch of cold squab and asparagus as Mr. Frick and Roger discussed our journey. I found it quite interesting to hear of the many art galleries we had visited while in New York.

"Oh, don't forget, dear, we saw Maurice Barrymore in Hamlet," I added.

"Oh yes, of course."

"Maurice Barrymore?" Something in the name had spark Childs.

"Yes, do you know of him?"

"Yeah- yes. He's the toughest actor ever. Did you hear about the time he was shot three times by the outlaw Big Jim in Texas and lived?" Both Frick parents winced.

"No I hadn't," I said.

Childs eyes shone and his face became animated. "Well you see Big Jim-"

"Childs, I do not believe the lunch table is the appropriate place for this conversation," Mrs. Frick said, sharply.

"Yes, mama," Childs said, and he shrunk back into his seat as if whatever spark had been inside him had been extinguished.

"You said you were leaving for Chicago today, is that correct?" Roger said, salvaging the conversation.

"Yes. I received a letter from Chicago just the other day requesting my presence to approve the designs."

"Will the exhibit be for Carnegie Steel?"

"No. Mr. Carnegie will be presenting his own exhibit." The clipped tone in which Mr. Frick said the name indicated to me a certain disdain for the man. Whether this had always been the case or if it were as a result of the recent events I could not be sure, only that there was strain in their relationship. "Of course, you are welcome to come along if you like. I'll be testing out a new rail car. I believe you would find it quite to your liking."

"I shall consider it. For how long?"

"Only nine days."

Roger frowned slightly. "That is a rather long time."

"It is up to you, of course. But it would give you the opportunity to see what innovations we are making."

Roger pursed his lips as he pondered the offer. "Would you tell me more about this exhibition?"

Frick spoke at some length about the exhibition and his particular part in the whole affair, a conversation which soon turned to his holdings in the rail companies and their new construction projects.

"We've been moving the slag from the mills over to our new site, but we were disappointed to find there had been an unmarked mine beneath and the additional weight caused the mine to subside. It was particularly unfortunate for our investors, though, as I have argued, it was their responsibility to make certain the land was sound."

"Investors?" I asked.

"Yes, real estate speculators. I'm sure you have heard that slag is a fine material to build on. You might not think so given it is merely the impurities scraped from the steel, but we have found it to possess excellent properties that make it, in some ways, superior to natural land. In fact we have been able to reshape the geography of the region using it. We have created lakeside properties and sculpted mountains that houses and businesses might be built upon them as it has good abrasion resistance, high heat retention, good soundness characteristics, and high bearing strength."

"Is that what occurred with the dam?" I asked, imagining a dam constructed of slag being too heavy for its spillway and giving way.

Childs's fork clattered to his plate. Frick's visage darkened. "The American Society of Civil Engineers cleared the club of any responsibility in the matter, and that is all I have to say on that subject." he said sternly. I was not sure what I had said to garner such a reaction, but whatever this incident with the dam had been clearly it was not something that was ever to be mentioned.

"Why don't you tell me about that rail car you mentioned before?" Roger said.

"Ah yes, the pullman," Frick launched into a discussion of the various features of the car which continued through the end of the meal and onto the grounds of the park across the lane.

Helen was glad of her new companion. I watched as she led Millie by the hand along the hillocks of the park ground while Childs walked about with a large stick he had picked up, bouncing it along the ground in front of him. "It is so nice to see them getting along so well," Mrs. Frick said from beside me.

She had been so quiet I had almost forgotten her presence and was mildly startled to see her so close. "Oh, yes, they do seem to be kindred spirits."

"Let me show you Childs's teepee," I heard Helen say. Millie shook her head and off they ran.

"Wait, don't! Helen! You'll break it!" Childs dropped the stick and raced after them.

"Eek! It's the cowboy!" Helen shrieked, looking back at Childs. Millie followed suit screeching and laughing as they ran faster.

"That's right," Childs said. "I'm wild Buffalo Bill and I'm going to catch you and turn you in for coffee."

"No!" Helen screamed. "We have to get to the teepee before he catches us."

"Children, don't run," Mrs. Frick called after them, to no effect.

"Children. Please," Mr. Frick said authoritatively as they ran past him, fully engulfed in their world of make believe. The whole thing was made all the more amusing for I was fairly certain Millie neither knew what an Indian was nor a cowboy. Suddenly, I saw Millie's feet tangle in a branch. She shrieked, pulling Helen with her and Childs, who had been bearing down on them, found himself without room to stop, tripping over the both of them and falling flat out upon them both. Mrs. Frick rushed past me to her children, helping to pull Helen out from under her brother. In my mind I counted the seconds. One... two... three. And there were the screams and tears. I sped up my pace, but Roger was closer than I and already had Millie up.

"Oh Helen! Childs! Are you alright? How many times have I told you not to run in the park?" she said.

"We only tripped," Childs said.

"Yes, but you could have been hurt," Mrs. Frick said, cradling a crying Helen to her chest.

"What do we have here?" I said to Roger who was tending to Millie who was crying no less than Helen.

"Looks like a scrape, nothing to worry about." He showed me her knee upon which a deep red abrasion held dominance, tiny drops of blood were already oozing out. Taking his handkerchief he wrapped it around Millie's knee.

"Here you are Millie, look, father has given you a bandage to make you all better." Millie stopped crying and looked at her knee. "And now I shall administer the special cure for all hurts," I knelt down and kissed the wound. "And there you are, good as new." Millie smiled. "Now, let's keep on."

Mr. Frick was already upbraiding Childs. "But we were just playing."

"You are almost ten and she is four. You know better than to act in such a way. Because of your carelessness that little Norbert girl was hurt. What if her cut becomes infected?"

"There is no need to be so hard on the boy," I said, no longer able to simply stand by and listen. "It was a simple accident. She is perfectly fine."

"Mina!" Roger said harshly. "It is a family matter." He turned to Mr. Frick. "I apologize for my wife's behaviour." I stared at him in shock. In all my years with him Roger had never scolded me before.

"It is nothing for you to apologize for. If anything it is I who owe the apology for my son's behavior."

"Then let us consider our accounts settled."

"Of course. If you'd like to follow me I have something I am sure you will enjoy."

Roger fell behind Frick's pace to where I was. "Darling, don't forget yourself. You are proper lord's wife, not Mina Moore."

I nodded. I had forgotten myself in that moment. Or rather, forgotten who I was meant to be. Mother would have never spoken out of turn in such a way, over a man's disciplining of his own children. The very thought of humiliating her husband in such a way as to do something so bold would scandalize her. A wife's role in society was as ornamentation for her husband, but just as with a pair of cufflinks or a stick pin, such ornamentation was only to augment his best features. If it demanded attention on itself it had failed in its duty and brought shame to its owner, either by being too flashy and showing him insensible, or too base and showing him crude. That was my role and I mustn't again forget it.

"Do you intend to go with him to Chicago?"

"I can see the merits to the plan, what are your thoughts?"

"The full nine days might be too long."

"Are you so worried for us?"

"No. But I would miss you."

I slid my hand through his arm. "If it would not be considered improper, I would kiss you right here in front of everyone."

"What kind of bird is that?" Roger asked loudly. As we looked I felt his kiss upon my cheek. I blushed.

"That was a cruel trick, Mr. Norbert."

"Cruel, but effective."

"That's a red-tailed hawk," Childs said from beside me. I hadn't realized he was following so close.

"Oh. How interesting," I said.

"There are a lot of them that live around here. They like to eat the squirrel, chipmunks, and rabbits."

"Well, aren't you the naturalist?" Childs beamed.

"As you can see, we've had this area cleared, but no further than this," Frick said, gesturing toward the grassy area we had been treading upon. "Ah, here we are. Take a look at that." We gazed from the edge of the grassy plain through a fringe of trees into a deep ravine wherein hid a lush green forest of grand, tall trees towering over a narrow stream which flowed down further into the valley, criss-crossed here and there by thin paths. A deer sipped at the stream, unaware she was being watched from above.

"It's lovely," I breathed.

"Look, there's a deer," Childs said, pointing to the one by the stream.

"Where? I don't see a deer!" Helen pouted.

"Down by the stream," Mr. Frick knelt beside her, pointing over her shoulder.

"Oh there it is! Look, Millie, a deer."

Mr. Frick stood, dusting off his knees. "Would you like to go down into the wood? We have a path we often follow that runs along the stream. It is not too strenuous a walk. There's a clearing further on where the children like to have picnics." We all agreed that sounded an excellent idea and were soon walking down a slowly sloping path into the valley where we followed along the brook some way until we came to a clearing it seemed God, Himself, had hewn from the rock.

"Those cliffs are mostly shale and sandstone, but you can see traces of limestone," Mr. Frick pointed to the sheer cliffs which surrounded the clearing. "And there, that black line, that is bituminous coal seam." His finger traced a thin black line which ran across the cliff.

"Are coal seams like this common," Roger asked.

Mr. Frick smiled at the interest his potential investor was showing. Roger was asking precisely the correct questions. "Oh no. This is only a small seam. Most are much larger. Western Pennsylvania is black with the finest coal and oil in all the United States, and I daresay the world. Have you ever heard of anthracite?"

Roger admitted he hadn't and Frick began speaking of the virtues of the stone when Millie came up to Roger and tugged at his coat.

"Daddy, may I go see Childs's teepee?" The two Frick children watched eagerly from behind her.

"Where is the teepee?" Roger asked Frick, quietly. Frick pointed to a stand of sticks laid against each other in a rudimentary conical design not far off on the other side of the stream. "Of course, but be careful. And don't go further. Stay close to Childs and Helen." The trio ran off over the stream and to the stick pile.

"I must say," Mrs. Frick opined. "It is refreshing to see a man so involved with his daughter."

"Yes, he really is a good father." I smiled, recalling with the utmost tenderness Roger's secret terror at the prospect of being a father when I had told him I was with child. Of course he had attempted to sound delighted at the time, and he was that, but it took some doing to extract from him his worry that he had been too long a spy, that he knew nothing of child rearing, that he was not certain he was even capable of the type of love a child would need from their father. How that had changed once Millie was in his arms.

"Henry has always felt children are the greatest treasure a man can own. He has always dedicated himself to ours."

"I have noticed." Though perhaps Childs could do with a little less dedication as it were. "That man said he had only just been in Castalia. Is he so often away from home?"

"That was Det. McTighe, pay him no mind."

"A detective? Is something the matter?" Though I knew very well what the trouble was for the newspapers had not ceased to print every rumor of threat to Mr. Frick's life.

"He's serving as a temporary guard for my husband, is all. Nothing to worry yourself about."

"Why does Mr. Frick-"

Mrs. Frick interrupted me before I could finish the question. "Oh, Henry, what would you suggest Mrs. Norbert see while she is in the city?"

"I really wouldn't know what might hold interest for a lady. Perhaps one of the galleries, or you might take her shopping at Kaufmanns. I've seen advertisements for their new Autumn line."

"Kaufmanns? The shop down on Smithfield with that gaudy statue of Liberty? We couldn't possibly. It is incumbent upon a lady of society to set the trends, not simply follow them. Besides, mill workers shop there." She fixed her husband with a meaningful look that removed all pretense to haughtiness from her words, though I know that is how she intended for Roger and I to interpret them.

"Oh yes. Quite right, as always, Adelaide."

"Perhaps you might show those designs you fancied to the tailor and he can utilize some of their best features."

"Of course, I shall do it when I return from Chicago, if I don't see finer pieces there. Speaking of which," he checked his watch, "it is time we should be leaving. What say you, Mr. Norbert? Are you coming along?"

"Yes, if you don't mind the company."

"Then let us be returning. Children, it is time to be leaving," he called to the trio who slowly trudged from their playhouse. "I will inform the footman to add your trunk to the coach."

"Here," Roger said, surreptitiously handing me an envelope from his waistcoat. "It is all you will need for the meeting tonight."

"Ah, so this is what you have been up to," I said conspiratorially.

"Be safe, darling," he said, placing a peck on my brow.


	12. Chapter 11

"Momma, may I have some water?" Millie asked as I put tucked her into the nursery bed for her nap. Helen dozed in the bed next to her.

"Of course, darling," I replied, smoothing her curls back. I looked to the end table and realized that there was none there as there usually was in our home. I quickly scanned the room for a glass. There, I could use the one from from the tea set. I picked up a tea cup that sat before a doll that would not have looked out of place in Louis XIV's court. It was not much larger than the head of a newly born kitten but it was capable of holding water. It would certainly look strange to use the diminutive cup, but then, it was only for an hour. Now where might the loo be? I saw the door to the left was open just enough for the tiled wall to peek through the crack. I carefully opened the door that it would not squeak and wake Helen, and slipped inside.

I found the sink immediately. One particularly good thing about the recent renovations on the house was that they had installed modern plumbing with both hot and cold running water. I turned on the tap, rinsing the cup and then filling it, allowing my eyes to wonder up to the medicine chest. Laudanum. I shuddered at the familiar little bottle that had come so close to ending my brother's life. Vibrona. Coca Cola syrup. Belladonna. Phosphates. I turned off the water and was about to go when I heard voices coming from the room behind the door opposite the one I had entered through. I crept up to the door, placing my ear to the crack.

"Can it really not wait two days?" I heard Mrs. Frick say.

"No. We've put it off too long as it is." Mr. Frick answered.

"I wish you could stay for Helen's birthday"

"We already celebrated this past weekend. At her age she doesn't know one day from another."

"I know, but still. You've hardly been home for a month. I don't know how much more of this I can bear alone."

"It is only for nine days"

"And nine more and nine more after that, with only a few days for us in between." Mrs. Frick's voice was becoming more pitched.

"It is only for a short while longer."

"You don't know how they look at me on the street, you've not heard what they say. And then to come home to an empty cradle an empty bed in the nursery, to see every day where she played, where I nursed him by the window. And then you have become a stranger to me in my own household. Your room is a shrine to her and I have no part in it."

"Dear, you really shouldn't close the windows. You know the doctor said you needed plenty of oxygen."

"I don't need oxygen, I need my husband to be home. I need this to be over with."

"Perhaps you might take the children and Mrs. Norbert to our house in Cresson."

There was a pregnant silence. I pressed my ear against the door, crushing the cartilage painfully against my scalp. "How can you even suggest that?"

I heard Mr. Frick release a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry."

"I cannot even think of the place without seeing..."

"I will make inquiries into a new summer home."

"Thank you," I could hear the breaking of tears in her voice.

The floor creaked as Mr. Frick stepped toward his wife. "I am sorry, Adelaide. You know, you knew when you married me, what my ambitions were. What they might cost. I cannot lose your support, your friendship now. It is the only thing that sustains me. We need this exhibition to go well. If it were not imperative I would not go."

"But why is it so imperative? That you must miss your own daughter's birthday?"

"I am hesitant to say. I would hate to trouble you further."

"Would could possibly be worse than the imaginings my own mind could create."

There was another sigh. I heard the sound of someone falling heavily into a chair. "It is Andrew."

"Andrew? Is he ill?"

"In a manner of speaking. Though it seems I am the cause of it. He is unhappy with how the events at Homestead came to pass."

"I thought he had approved the use of Pinkertons?"

"It is not the Pinkertons that bother him but the seven dead workmen that resulted from their employ."

"I cannot believe he would hold you responsible for that. He told you to do whatever was necessary to break the strike."

"Yes, but that was under the assumption we would quickly and painlessly take the works. That I failed to do so and instead created a public spectacle... He fears the events may blacken his name forever. He is distancing himself from me."

"But he is one of our dearest friends. He has been since our honeymoon. I cannot believe... Has he said anything to that effect?"

"No, but I can feel it. I need to bring in new investors, to assure the public that all is well with H.C. Frick and Company. That way, should Andrew make a move against me..."

"You are being over-cautious dear. You were nearly killed for the sake of the company. How could he be anything but grateful for all you have done?"

There was silence. "I will write as often as I am able. Goodbye, Adelaide."

In the distance I heard a door shut. A moment later muffled sobs came from the room on the other side of the door.

I placed the cup on the table beside Millie, who, in the time it had taken me to bring the water, had fallen fast asleep. "Is she down?" Roger whispered from the doorway.

"Yes, Roger."

He strode in and took me in his arms, kissing me passionately. "You know I love to hear you say my name," he said.

I pulled back from him slightly. "You had better adjust yourself to it or risk scandalizing our hosts."

"Let them be scandalized." He kissed me again, refusing to even slightly loosen his grasp on me.

I lay my head against his chest. "So how will I know your poet when I see him?"

"You will."

"That isn't much of a description."

"He will come to you."

"Even though he is expecting you, alone?"

"He knew you were coming with me. He will understand. Do you know where the place is?"

"By the large square house at the point where the rivers meet?"

"Good. You were paying attention."

"Be safe, Roger."

He kissed me again. "Always. Besides, the good detective will be there to watch after us."

I smiled. "Or you to watch after him."

He smirked. "I will see you in a few days. Do try not to find too much trouble while I am away."

"Are you afraid I won't leave any for you?"

"Precisely." He kissed me again and a second time. "And I'd hate to have wasted the trip." He kissed me a third and fourth time.

"Roger, go or you will make Mr. Frick late."

"They won't leave without him. Let him be a little late."

"Roger!"

"I know, I'm going. Be safe, my darling." He gave one more peck and released me.

"Good bye." I said. He smirked at my clear irritation and disappeared out the door. A thought occurred to me. I rushed to the door. "I love you," I called.

"I love you too, darling," he answered as he descended the stairs and then was gone.

After the children's nap, Mrs. Frick took us for a tour of the house. Millie was most taken with her own room, to be shared with Helen. Everything from the toys to the miniature furniture, to the scale, to the birds and flowers painted upon the ceiling above enchanted her and Helen was eager to tell her every adventure the dolls and animals had undertaken and the names of her favorite ceiling birds.

I was taken by the library, myself. I could already see myself climbing through the window onto the outside landing with a book, sitting in the sun on that warm black surface whiling away the afternoon. It was not an especially large library but it held its own charm. On the wall next to the desk Mrs. Frick designated as her own (a special, modest piece designed by the architect who had done their renovations, a Mr. Osterling by name) was the framed depiction of a house as drawn by children's hands. An original by Child's Frick, himself.

We took supper in the breakfast room, our small numbers not being enough to justify the use of the cavernous dining room with its gleaming chandeliers, glass china cabinets, and brickwork fireplace that brought to mind a gigantic Italian bread oven in its design. The children were disappointed in this, particularly Childs who had enthusiastically pointed out the tooled leather panels which crowned the walls on our tour (I supposed due to their natural appearance in what was so artificial as a mansion). I imagine Millie and Helen were more disappointed because they did not have the giant table to run circles around as they had done during the tour, deaf to all scolds. Still, the meal was quite pleasant and the food excellent. I asked to speak to the cook and a rotund man of African features, introduced as Mr. Spencer Ford, was called in to the room. I gave him our compliments and requested the recipe for his pigeon pie, for it was easily the best I had ever tasted.

Millie was still worn from our travels and made no objection when it was time to put her down for bed. As Mrs. Frick and I watched the children drop off to sleep, she said, "They look just like perfect little angels, don't they?"

Gazing at the pair, tucked into their small white beds with their rosy lips and their black and blond hair surrounding their heads like the halos of Catholic art, it was easy to envision them as two tiny angels sleeping on clouds. "They truly do."

Helen stirred. Blinking, she sleepily regarded the other bed. "Sister," she mumbled, as she closed her eyes again.

"Oh!" Mrs. Frick cried, clutching her heart. "I am sorry." She rushed from the room into the loo. Even through the door I could hear her stifled cries through the clinking of glass bottles.

Mrs. Frick took to her bedroom early that evening. As the sky darkened, I heard the musical Irish tones of Mrs. Coyne calling out for Childs. I peered through the library window where I saw Mrs. Coyne standing in her dark dress at the edge of the park. A few minutes later Childs emerged from the trees with Brownie close behind, from a way I knew to be almost a sheer drop into the ravine. He must be part goat, I mused. Perhaps that was why Officer Wolfe referred to them as kids. Mrs. Coyne brushed off his back with long, careless swipes as they walked back toward the house.

Evening was now well set in the sky. The blanket of twilight hung over the last few inches of sunlight as I made my way to the train station. From there it was a simple matter of catching the train back to where we had come from and following along the river until the land ended. The walk from the station was less than half a mile, though, in the dark of the unfamiliar streets it felt much further. I saw the freight yard I had noticed on the map up ahead. Men in shirt sleeves and overalls loosed to their waists hauled crates in the billowing steam flowing from a large black engine. As I walked beyond a pungent odor assaulted my nose, like that of raw sewage. The coffee ring had centered on a squared diamond marked as Old Fort Duquesne in the middle of a poorly delineated neighborhood. Doubtless this was a landmark known to the locals.

I turned left onto the street I had read as Penn avenue on Roger's map. The name, like Fort Duquesne, had stuck in my mind for it had struck me that the name Penn was almost omnipresent in this city of belching furnaces. The filthy street was lined with factories and decrepit store fronts. A man whose face was obscured by a wide brimmed hat and unshaven face sat leaning against a brick wall with a green bottle in his hand and a shabby coat draped over his shoulders despite the warm temperatures, or was it a coat?. It looked more like a blanket of strange design. Like something one might see in a photograph of an indian. He gave me a cursory glance with his bright blue eye and returned to his bottle, taking a long swig.

I turned the corner onto Fort Street. Piles of dirt and trash littered the sidewalks, spilling over into the brick streets and collecting by the curbs. Excrement lay in the open, horse and dog and probably man. Puddles of filth pooled in the street and beside the buildings. I crinkled my nose at the tart smell of urine. A crash caused me to spin holding up my umbrella to ward off a potential attacker, but it was only a scrawny cat that had caused a rotting wooden pallet to fall from its place resting against the wall of one of the tenements. It jumped up onto the exposed sill of a window, clawing to catch its grip as pieces of the wood gave way beneath its feet. The soot blackened brick of the house chipped and crumbling, as with most of the houses on the street. Lower story windows were boarded up, some with light sifting through the chinks between the wood. Wax paper flapped from the broken glass pane of a second story window. I man and woman screamed at each other, their silhouettes visible through the wood chinks. A the end of the street, just on the other side of a road, a gleaming building of iron and glass and pale, smooth limestone towered over the tenements, great turrets with sleek spires rose to touch the dark clouds of smokey sky. Looking at the sight I felt as the rich man must have upon seeing Lazarus in heaven from his place in the pit. And though it certainly was no gulf, the road that ran between this slum and the glorious structure only just beyond it felt just as insurmountable.

A breeze sent crumpled paper swirling into the street, dancing about under the light a single street lamp that hung from above on a long, crooked pole. It seemed unnaturally quiet despite the loud carousing coming from a brightly lit pub down the street. I didn't see a square house like that the map had shown, sitting strangely catty corner amongst the other buildings. Gripping my umbrella tightly, I continued down the street. Then I saw it. Recessed away from the street and the other buildings, as out of place and out of time as an orange among apples, stood a brick structure with stone foundation with two bands of wooden gun loops, their slits serving as windows. What windows had been torn into the sides of the building were boarded up. It was not a rectangular structure, per se, though a portion of it was, the rear half extended out into a point, creating a pentagram with uneven sides. I scanned the grounds around the structure for any sign of life, but none presented itself.

"Hey girlie! Are you lost?"

I spun around to see a man who had presumably left the pub to relieve himself, given he remained in an undone state. He had a thin black mustache and though he wore a suit it was of a cheap variety. He was not ugly in form, but in composure, he was repulsive. "No sir, I'm just waiting for a friend," I said dismissively, hoping he might take the hint. I twisted the handle of my umbrella between my hands.

"So you're that kind of girl, eh? Maybe I could be your friend." He leered as he staggered toward me. He was not going to make this easy and I was far from in the mood to deal with this sort of nonsense.

"No, I don't believe so," I said, maintaining my composure, though my eyes darted to his belt and pockets. I did not see a gun, but he still might be concealing a knife.

"Aw come on, I could show you a better time than you've ever had." I sincerely doubted that. I wished he would do up his trousers. There was nothing enticing about what he was exposing to the world.

"I do ask that you leave me alone."

"Aw just be a nice girl. Give me have a little hug and a kiss and I swear I'll be on my way."

"I won't ask you again. Leave me be."

"Or what? Your friend will stop me? If he were coming he would be here by now. Wouldn't leave a girl alone in a neighborhood like this. Even a plain one like you. Now I'm going to have me that kiss." He lunged at me.

I spun away from his grasp and in an instant he was leaning back in terror, his hands up, with the tip of my sword to his throat. "I suggest you continue on your way. I am not afraid to use this if I must."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Now go and don't let me see your face here again."

He turned, attempting to run off but his state of inebriation cause him to stumble and roll. He caught sight of me still holding the sword and scrambled at a crawl out of the recessed yard.

"Hopefully that will teach him not to molest strange women." I said, sheathing my sword in my umbrella shaft.

"Doubtful," a deep voice said from the shadows. A man emerged, the very same as I had seen sitting against a wall with a bottle only moments ago. He removed his hat, revealing gray hair cropped close to the scalp. His jaw was squared, his features appeared as if they had been hewn in stone. They were certainly not British, but some amalgamation of Scotch Irish and possibly German. His tanned face was deeply lined giving it a leather like quality. "Men like that never learn. That was a nice bit of swordsmanship."

I did not even bother to acknowledge the compliment. "You are late." I said.


	13. Chapter 12

"James was unable to make the meeting?" The detective called The Poet asked, his voice like shoes sliding on gravel.

"He has been called away on business."

"So he sent you in his place."

"Yes, they call me M."

"I know who you are." He said, pulling out a cigarette and placing it in his mouth.

"Is that why you did not intervene?"

"I wanted to see what you could do." He cupped a hand aside his mouth, lighting the cigarette with a turn of the gear on his lighter. There was a loud pop and a burst of flame. Not especially stealthy, but then stealth would be more suspicious to the passerby. He took a few preliminary puffs before taking a long breath. He blew a plume of smoke from between his lips.

"Well, I hope you were suitably impressed," I said coolly.

He flipped the top of the lighter closed. "My partner is at a meeting in Allegheny City tonight."

"So there are two of you?"

"Yeah. An old acquaintance from South Dakota. He's infiltrated the Union meetings across the river. Lot of new workers there. He's younger, they don't think much of him so long as he doesn't attend too frequently."

"Mr. Bond requested I give this to you." I handed him the envelope.

"Did you look at the contents?"

"No."

"Good." He slid the envelope into the faded graying-blue greatcoat that hung open beneath the blanket on his shoulders, not completely obscuring a crushed stand and fall collar. The base of the collar was ragged, as if a cape had been cut from it, but quite some years ago. It was military of some type, but not British as I could tell from the single line of buttons, rather than the double breasted greatcoat of the Scottish calvary.

"So, can you arrange an interview?"

He took another drag from his cigarette. He smirked, and expression that seemed more natural to his face than a smile would. "You don't waste time, do you?"

"Not if I can help it."

He took another puff, a column of ash crumbled from the cigarette to the grass below. "I can. When would you like it to be?"

"Next week, if possible."

He dropped the butt of the cigarette on the ground, crushing it with his boot. "I'll make the arrangements," he said, turning to go.

"And one more thing."

He turned his head. "Yes?"

"There was a head that turned up in the river yesterday."

"What about it?"

"I'd like to have a look at it. Can you arrange for access to the morgue?"

"Missy, if you wanted a midnight meeting with Mayor Gourley in his bedroom I could get it for you. There isn't an official in this town that doesn't want this rumor but to bed."

"The morgue will be fine. When is the earliest it might be possible?"

"When is the earliest you can get away?"

"Maybe five-thirty in the morning."

"That'll do then."

I had not expected him to so readily agree. "Isn't that rather early?"

"If I know McDowell he'll be glad to wake up at any hour if it might shed light on the case. Anything else?"

"No."

He scratched out something on a piece of rolling paper and handed it to me. "See you at six o'clock."

I nodded, watching the tall, broad-backed man disappear into the darkness.

* * *

That morning I awoke to the insistent ringing of my alarm clock. It had only just struck five. Completing my toilet, I snuck down to the basement where the laundresses would soon be arriving to begin their work. Piles of linens and clothing littered the tables and floor as the unmistakable scent of lye stung my nostrils and eyes. I moved one of the washer women's chairs to the window, and made short work of the lock, opening it and pulling myself out.

I took the trolley most of the way to the address, glad to have obtained a map from the driver, who appreciated my plight and avowed he had no need of his. I was surprised to find not a , but a house at the address The Poet, Frank Spencer had given me. I stood in front of the house, searching it for answers. Perhaps he had written the wrong number? But then none of the other building looked like it might house a morgue either. Could he have given the wrong street? I smelled the faint scent of burning tobacco.

"Ah, I see you've found the place." I recognized the rough voice from last night. I turned to see the stone-faced man from yesterday and another man standing beside him. But wait a minute? Were my eyes deceiving me? Those same bright blue protuberant eyes, overly squared jaw, ruddy complexion, and chestnut hair. I knew I had recognized him. He had a few more fine lines and his skin was browner from the sun but there was no mistaking him.

"Georg!" I cried.

"Beggin' your pardin', ma'am?" the man with drawled.

"We've been looking for you everywhere! Last we heard you had left the French for the Germans in Africa."

The man I was certain was Georg fixed The Poet with a quizzical look. Det. Spencer cleared his throat. "This is my partner, Det. Tom Ewing."

He stuck out his hand with a friendly smile. "Folks call me Wyoming, on account of that's where I'm from."

I reddened. "Sorry, you looked just like... someone I used to know."

"Ah get that a lot. So long as you thought he was a good lookin' feller there ain't no harm in it." He winked and tipped his bowler hat.

"Tom's the finest shot in the agency. We were lucky to get him."

"Weren't nothin' lucky about it fer me. Frank here sprung me from prison. Dang Homesteaders were fixin' to fit me with a manila necktie fer shootin' a man. Last time I sign up fer a job without knowin' 'xactly what it is. He changed my record so it said I'd come over from Allegheny City to fight on the side of the strikers, got me a fake union card an' everythin'. Reckon he saved my life."

"Just returning the favor for Pine Ridge."

"Pine Ridge?" I asked.

"It's nothin'," Not Georg said quickly. "No sense wastin' time jawin'."

It was certainly not nothing, but now was not the time to press the matter. I followed the pair up to the house. "Is this the morgue?" I asked, quite confused.

Frank knocked on the door. "Well, missy, I suppose now is the time to break it to you. There is no morgue."

"No morgue? In a city of this size? What do you do with the bodies? How do you investigate murders?"

"Best let him tell it."

In a moment the door opened on a well-dressed wiry young man, from the lines on his narrow, sharp face and his broad brow that rose high at the sides with only a little sliver of dark hair encroaching forward I guessed him to be in his late thirties. Around his neck, on a leather strand was a piece of cloth with an image of St. Paul upon it. A scapular. I had often seen them around the necks of many a pious Frenchman. But this man was clearly not French, rather he was clearly a Scot. He adjusted his spectacle on his straight nose. "Detective Spencer," he said. "On time as always."

"Who is it?" a female voice called from inside the house.

"Just the detective, Minnie," the man called back. "I take it you must be the detective they wanted me to meet?" He extended a hand to me. "Dr. Heber McDowell, I'm the county coroner. You believed you might be able to shed some light on our noncorporeal friend?"

"I thought I might have a look."

"Of course. Do you have your instruments?" He asked. I shook my head. "It's no matter, you may borrow mine." He grabbed a black doctor's kit from beside the door.

"Where are we going?" I asked as he shuffled through us and out the door.

"I have an office on 8th," he said, on slightly turning his head. "Well, come on, it's a bit of a trip." I looked over to the two detectives. They shrugged.

We took the same trolley as I had taken on the way there, much to my consternation. Dr. McDowell led us to the door of a rather ramshackle building. The door appeared as though it might blow over in a stiff wind if not for the multitude of heavy locks keeping it anchored to the wall. McDowell proceeded to unlock each one with a legion of metal keys on his key ring. He opened the door, revealing a large, clean, if clearly aged white room. In one corner was a desk and a set of filing cabinets. A wooden crucifix with a silver Christ had been nailed to the wall above the desk. Near the center of a room a metal gurney stood on spindly wheeled legs next to a metal table with a variety of snowy white porcelain bowls. Another gurney stood against the wall, near an industrial sized sink.

"Welcome to my office. It's not much at the moment, but I have put a request in for the city to turn it into a proper morgue which they will hopefully approve in the near future." He set down his black bag on the gurney and pulled out a leather roll of surgical tools, untying the straps and laying it out on the table beside the bowls. "I wish I could simply keep them here, but in this neighborhood, you never can be too careful." I was gaining that impression. "You were very lucky," he continued, striding over to a sizable icebox and opening the door. "Given that it was only a head, the undertakers didn't particularly want this one." He rifled around in the icebox. "There wasn't much of a chance the city would give them the full twelve for it. Not worth sacrificing the space, what with all the new mill workers coming in. Usually it's a fight. Here we are." He produced a metal plate upon which lay a decomposing head. The fish had made work of his finer features but had not been able to wholly erase the deep purples, blacks, greens, and blue of his swollen flesh, testifying of a violent end. The man who called himself Ewing immediately turned away from the gruesome sight, almost too quickly for it had not been taken out before he began, The Poet was no more perturbed by it than if Dr. McDowell had produced a brick on the platter instead.

"So this is the patient?" I said.

"Yes. As you can see he's in a bad way. I would guess he was in the river at least a week."

"Possibly more, it would depend on the fish."

"The Youghiogheny is well stocked."

"Then a week would be about right. Have there been any reports of missing persons who might fit his description?"

"None. We think he might be-"

"Don't tell me," I interrupted. "I don't want to accidentally bias myself into missing something. Well, put him on the table and let us see what we can see."

He placed the head on the table and I began to prod at it. "Well this clearly wasn't done by any animal. It is far too clean." I indicated to the neck. "Hmmm... Most of the bruising is from superficial injuries. The right temporal bone has been shattered." I pressed gently on the place where the normally arch bone joined the malar. My finger sunk in slightly. "And the malar. The ascending ramus on the left as well. But not the nasal bone. Interesting."

"I thought the same," McDowell said.

"Why is that interestin'?" Ewing asked.

"In an attack or beating you often see injuries about the nose, it is almost an instinctive target, yet here it seems they intentionally avoided it." I reached for one of McDowell's steel probes and ran it up the side of his head, then the back. "Did you notice this mark on the right posterior squamosal suture?"

"Where?" McDowell leaned in. I lifted the sunbleached chestnut hair gently with the side of the probe, revealing a long bruise. "How did I miss that?"

"With all the other bruises it would be hard to notice."

"Might this have been caused by a branch in the river?"

"Possible, but unlikely given the placement behind the ear.

"It may have been meant to strike the mastoid to knock him unconscious," The Poet supplied.

I nodded in agreement. I lifted the ragged ruff of flesh from the back of the neck and sides where once muscle had been, but now, no more. The mastoid process was large, pronounced. I ran my probe along the nuchal lines. They were deep, well defined. "He had good muscular tone. A manual laborer."

"We thought so. That perhaps there was an accident at one of the mills and they decided to dump the body rather than face an inquiry. The Unions have been rabid for evidence of abuses and the papers no less so, particularly if the story is lurid."

"You mentioned before that a number of millworkers were dying. Is that a particularly dangerous profession?"

"You might say that. It is dangerous even to those who have worked it for years, heck, a little water gets into the molten steel and it'll explode on you. That won't just leave a hole in your clothes, it will go right through you to and out the other side. The non-Union workers they are bringing in are unskilled and largely untrained. They put them on the line with no more than a God Be With You and it's no surprise that within days, if not hours, they are injured, sometimes grievously. From simple broken bones to loss of limbs; and then, of course, they are relieved of their work. Our hospitals are certainly well equipped, but sometimes there is only so much modern medicine can do, particularly for a man who has only been on the job a few hours and can't afford the treatment. A lot dying of infections, blood poisoning, gangrene. Since they aren't employees anymore it never gets reported. They just die in the streets and the undertakers come and pick up the bodies."

Barbaric. I returned to the skull. At least it might make sense. "It's strange how the muscles are absent though. If it had been a case of simple machine decapitation they would still be partially present. And look at the axis."

"In my report the axis was missing."

"It is, well most of it. But for the dens." I indicated a piece of bone still stuck in place against the atlas. "Bones are weakest against sheer but strongest against compression, correct?"

"Yes."

"So then, if we take that into consideration, that would indicate the sight of compression at the axis, but directly below the dens, causing sheer damage. I would guess a blunt instrument, long with a straight edge. And, judging by the concentration of force, likely not very wide. I'm guessing perhaps a metal pipe of some sort."

"Could be a baseball bat, they're not an uncommon weapon of choice."

"Possible, but I think, at this level of force it might leave splinters. But, either way, whatever they used, his body was immobile when it was done, as though he were bound to something."

"What in the world are ya'll talkin' about? How do ya know all that from a head?"" Ewing asked, clearly well out of his element.

"Oh, I do apologize. Dr. McDowell, might you fetch me a piece of paper and a pencil?" I walked over to the sink and washed my hands with a bar of cheap soap which caused them to immediately stink on animal fat and lye with a hint of lavender. I took the pencil and began to sketch the axis front the front and side views.

"He looks like a man with broad shoulders holdin' his arms in a circle. You said this was the atlas?"

"No, the axis. The atlas is the bone that directly attaches to the skull, like Atlas holding up the earth." I sketched a quick picture of the almost flat circular bone.

"If ya ask me, they shoulda called this one the atlas, it looks like him." Ewing pointed to the first.

"Well, it is the axis." I did not care if this man was Georg or not, he was testing my patience. It didn't help that he was right. I had never noticed how much the dens looked like the head of a bearded man, the body his upper torso, nor the articulating facets like great shoulders or the spinous process like a pair of hands. I took my pencil and wrote axis above the one in large letters and atlas over the other. "Now the dens nestles in the atlas like this."

"Looks like he's wearin' a yoke on his shoulders," Ewing whispered to The Poet, who allowed a smile, I shot them both a withering glare.

"If you aren't going to take this seriously than what is the point. It is for your benefit I am doing this. Dr. McDowell certainly doesn't need it explained."

"Sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to offend. Jus' tryin' to put it in a way I would understand is all."

"Now then, when a straight force is applied from the back, say from a bat or a metal pipe," I drew an arrow to the space between the atlas and axis bodies. "That force will cause the entire body to move forward. However, what we are seeing is shear damage to the dens, which means that the body was not able to move to absorb the impact and thus the head was propelled forward, causing a shear break in the one place where it was connected, at the dens." I drew and arrow moving through the neck to the dens and a line cutting through the dens where it was held within the atlas. "We can tell the blow came from the back by the fact the front of the dens has been chipped from the break." I filled in the little chip.

"It would have required a great deal of force though," Dr. McDowell said, thoughtfully.

"Yes, but not an impossible amount."

"So you believe...?"

"Yes, the head was removed from the body by a sudden blow to the back of the head. Probably by a metal pipe."

McDowell nodded his head. "Agreed."

"The other injuries are consistent with an interrogation of some type. Superficial becoming more extreme as time went on. That is why they avoided the nose."

The Poet nodded knowingly. "They didn't want to risk it breaking and entering the brain before they were done."

"Obviously he didn't give 'em what they wanted." Ewing drawled somberly.

"Or maybe he did and they didn't want to risk him telling anyone else," I said. "When I first heard of this case someone suggested it might have been done by the Monster of the Mon. Does that sound familiar?"

"Yeah, some of the younger guys talk about him, say you'd better not cross 'im ifn' you know what's good for ya. Like that hotel chambermaid girl who he forced to drink acid, or that Hungarian he had beaten on a boat, or old man Heuer."

"Don't listen to that nonsense." McDowell said. "The girl was a suicide. She lost her position and took her own life as a result. Tragic, yes. But no more noteworthy than that. As for the Hungarian, it wasn't the safest part of town. These things happen. But now it seems every crime that has the slightest element of the unknown is assigned to this so-called Monster of the Mon. He is no more than fear made manifest and as insubstantial as the smoke itself. It's not unlike during the spring thaw, every year it never fails, we begin to pull the winter bodies from the river and people start spreading rumors that there's a killer on the loose. It's just tales is all, nothing more, nothing less."

I returned my probe to Dr. McDowell's kit. "Well, I think I've seen all I might here. I'll need to ponder on this for a while, but I think he's given up all the answers he holds. Thank you for your assistance."

"No, thank you, it's been quite helpful to have a second set of eyes on the thing. I knew it was foul play but having confirmation is a real boon to the investigation." He took out his watch and read the time. "Hmm. Almost seven. Might as well open up shop. I have a body coming in from Bellevue they want me to look over. Simple case, elderly woman took a fall, but she had money and that makes people suspicious. Particularly inheritors." He saw us out the door.

"I'll be leaving you here as well," Det. Spencer said. "We'll be picketing Adolf Duerr's butcher shop. Tom'll see you home." The poet tipped his hat and was gone.

"The butcher? That seems a rather trivial thing," I said.

Ewing smirked. "It ain't trivial to the Homesteaders. Duerr's the first real businessman to cross the line and open up shop inside the mill to feed the scabs. Suppose he thought it was a sound business idea."

"So they are protesting him?"

"Not just protestin', they intend ta drive him out of business. Out of town if they can."

"That would seem a bit excessive."

"Excessive. Huh. You don't know these Homesteaders. They don't quit once they've got a notion."

"You said you were in jail for shooting a man in Homestead, am I to assume the shooting had some connection to the riot."

"You could 'ssume so."

"What happened?"

"Wal the short of it is Frick made a bad job of it, nearly got us all killed. I'll never forget the smell of those barges so long as I live."

"You were one of the Pinkertons on the river that day?"

A finger sprang to his lips. He scanned the area nervously. "Hey, you ever been to Exposition Park?" he said, apropos of nothing.

I eyed him suspiciously. "No."

He started slowly walking toward the trolley station. I followed behind. "Why don't we take a walk down there? It's not too busy this early on a Friday. If you got the time, that is."

"I have the time."

"You certain you won't be missed?"

"I am a lady who has just arrived from a long journey, they would not dream of disturbing me before ten. And if they, by chance see me coming back to the house I will simply tell them they must have missed me when I went out for a walk."

"Bond said you were clever, I suppose he was right." The trolley whistle howled as it slowed in front of us. I recognized it as Morse code for the letter Q, which seemed an odd thing. Quinton would be delighted.

"You have quite the gift for flattery, Mr. Ewing, but it will do you no good. I am married."

He swung himself onto the trolley by the gleaming white pole. "Wal, now that's a right pity. But I s'pose you would be." Hanging from the pole like a monkey from the zoo, he offered a hand down to me.

"And why do you s'pose that?" I teased, placing my hand in his. All at once I felt his hand close tightly around mine, in one fluid motion I felt his strong arm sweep me up onto the car sideboard.

He smiled enigmatically. "Jus' figures, I guess."


	14. Chapter 13

I watched the city pass by around the open sides of the trolley, exuberant at the wind whipping through my loose tendrils of hair and caressing my face. I could feel the trolley wheel above hitting every frog (as Jet had told me the electrical line connections were called). Then I noticed a man only two seats in front of me turn as another man, clearly a laborer, addressed him, grinning, with a hand extended for a shake, though I could not quite make out what was said. I recognized that profile! Thick black hair covered by a porkpie hat, long rectangular face with square jaw, an ill-fitting suit and sunken eyes and cheeks from ill health but still he managed a smile for the other man, though it was almost obscured by his thick, black, handlebar mustache. He took the laborer's hand with a smile that was all at once weary and genuine and spoke to the man a moment as though they were old friends, his sparkling eyes never wavering from the man's face.

"That's Hugh O'Donnell!" I cried to Det. Ewing, almost shouting over the din of wind in my ears and the clacking of the car on the tracks. He didn't the trolley slowed to a stop I cried out loudly in my best imitation of an American accent, "Mr. O' Donnell? Mr. Hugh O'Donnell?"

He turned in his seat and granted me a smile that might have been more charming but for the weariness in his eyes. "Yes?"

"Thank God for you, Mr. O' Donnell! My husband is a millworker"

"Which mill?"

"He was in Duquesne, but lately we've moved to Pittsburgh. He was very upset that they conceded to Carnegie." I said, recalling the recent capitulation of the Duquesne Union to Carnegie steel.

"It's a pity what happened in Duquesne."

"What brings you downtown?" I asked.

"I wish I could say it was good news. I have an appointment with the attorney representing the Amalgamated Association."

"Why?"

"It's not important," he flashed a disarming smile, "only another ploy of Mr. Frick. Nothing will come of it." While his words were filled with confident dismissal, his eyes betrayed him. It must be something rather serious. Perhaps what he had predicted had come to pass, that he now found himself in trouble with the law. The trolley lurched forward, causing Mr. O'Donnell to jerk towards me. His hand flew to his porkpie hat. He stuck out his other hand. "Well, it was very nice to meet you. Give my regards to your husband."

I took his hand and shook it. "I will. Thank you Mr. O'Donnell."

"Call me Hughey," he shouted over the sound of the wrought iron wheels as they built up speed along the track. "Everybody does." He turned around and stared ahead as the trolley moved along.

I turned to Ewing only to find him staring at O'Donnell, body rigid, his face blanched of all color. Mr. O'Donnell stepped off at the Smithfield Street station. Our stop arrived soon after. We stepped off at Penn Avenue, not far from where I had met The Poet the day before. Ewing's shoulders were squared as he hopped from the baseboard. He offered me no hand as I descended. As the trolley departed, bell ringing twice, I caught up to him.

"Now then, what was that all about?"

"Nothin'" He tried to walk faster.

"Do you know him?"

"No. Not personally. But I've seen him before."

"Then why did you react in such a manner?"

He stopped, releasing a heavy sigh. "You know how I was there on one of the barges the day of the riot?"

"Yes, but what roll does Mr. O'Donnell play in all of this?"

"He was at the riverbank, you see. Don't know if you saw that scar on his thumb? That was me. Wasn't aimin' for his finger though. Meant to get his heart, but I missed." He missed? Georg never missed. I had watched him hammer in nails with his bullets For the first time I truly began to doubt that this was, in fact, Georg. "For a moment there, when he turned around, I was afraid he'd recognize me. I thought he got a pretty good look when I hit him. I s'pose not. Or he jest didn' notice me. I'll never forget him, though, that Saul holdin' the coats."

"What happened on the riverbank that day?"

He smirked ruefully. "Don't you know?"

"The papers were vague on that part."

"I s'pose they would be." Ewing took out a cigarette and lit it, taking a few puffs. "They want to gin up support for Amalgamated." His eyes focused somewhere in the distance, not on a particular place but some intangible moment in time. "Do you know what three hundred men trapped for the better part of a day in two oversized floating tin cans smells like? How the July heat cooks you like a can of beans in the fire with a hundred other men? You can't breathe. And you can't go out or they'll shoot you. And all around you is the smell of gunsmoke, the sickly scent of oil as it laps against the barges, the stench of a burning flat car loaded with oil. And all around you men are cryin' and men are wailin'. They don't know what they're doin', most of 'em would barely know how to hold a gun in the best of times. And this ain't the best of times. There's a man dying slow on the floor, bleeding out from a bullet wound in his arm. At first he was screamin', then moanin', and now he's jus' wimperin', his face white as a sheet and you know it won't be long."

He took a long drag. "And you're just waitin'. And it's just another war and you're tryin' ta figure how you'll get out of this one. Or if you will. Or even if you want to. Cause there'll always be another war. They're shootin' at you from all directions. And you see the face of every man or woman or kid who died at your hand and so you add another to their number and they brand you a murderer for it."

"That sounds like a nightmare."

"Not the worst I've ever had. Coulda been. You know that moment when you face your own mortality?"

I nodded.

"When the Homesteaders sent a burning flat car down the rail tracks to us, I felt it. As did every other man on those barges."

"Why didn't they jump off?"

"Seems like the reasonable thing to do, right? I'll tell you it was hardest thing I ever did to resist that urge. Wal, second only to burying the only family I had." He shrugged, staring straight ahead as he sucked in another breath full of smoke. "See, the Homesteaders, they had people on the bridge shootin' at us, people on skiffs on the river, jus' waiting for one of us to poke his head out of the metal covering like a groundhog poking its head out of its hole. They weren't about to let any of us get outta there alive."

"What do you mean?" I was baffled by this. "Would not it have been in their best interests to persuade the Pinkertons to leave and thereby end the fighting?"

"Jus' what I says. We tried to leave, the tug came to get us, American flag streamin' in the wind. They shot at it all the same, until it had to turn around and leave us behind. We tried to surrender, but every time someone would wave the white flag it'd be shot outta their hands."

"What did they mean by that?"

"Simple, Agent M. They meant to kill us. All of us. Like so many rats." His visage was dark. I could tell he had sunk too far into the memory to keep his head much longer. I needed to pull him back to the present, distract him. The topic could be revisited when O'Donnell's visage was not so fresh in his mind and the Homestead shore not so close.

"Would you call me, Mina? Normally I would not ask you to be so familiar, but you do understand."

He shrugged. "Don't want me ta know your last name. I understand. My name don't mean a thing, ain't no family attached to it to protect, so I have the luxury to give it freely." He tossed the cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it under his shoe. "Why don't we mosey on over to the Exposition Hall?"

We walked for a while before I spoke again. "You said you had fought in a war?"

"Did I?"

"Yes."

He thought back a moment. "Guess I did. Yep. Fought in the Indian Wars, US Army 7th Calvary."

"Not the Civil War?"

"How old do you think I am?"

"Sorry. There are so many wars it becomes difficult to remember the small civil ones."

He actually managed a laugh at that. "Don't let anyone round here hear you say that. As far as any American is concerned it's the biggest war that ever was. Frank fought in it. But don't tell him I told you. He'll talk your ear off with stories of him and General Sherman burning a swath to the sea. Came all the way down from Minnesota to serve under him. Before then he was with the Le Sueur Tigers. Saw some things no man should ever see fighting the Sioux up there. One of the first men Sherman recruited to help him with the Indian problem. He did a tour of duty at Ft. Dodge afore he was contacted by the Pinkertons."

"Mr. Bond tells me he was an Indian Agent?"

"Yeah. Guess he got tired of fightin' them. I don't blame him. One tour was enough to cure me of it as well. It's fine enough to shoot men on a battlefield, but women and children? He knows six or seven languages, all told."

"So, you must tell me the story of how you saved his life."

He smirked. "I'd rather tell you bout what happened on the riverbank."

The more I spoke to him the more I became convinced that perhaps it were just a strange resemblance between he and Georg. Where Georg had been the very definition of taciturn, Tom was almost overly talkative, remarking on everything in his comfortable, easy manner. Now that O'Donnell's influence had been exorcised and he was back to himself I found it much like speaking with an old friend. It was difficult to believe I had only met him this morning.

"Would you like ta go by way of the park? We could watch the riverboats and barges pass by. Mebbe buy some boiled peanuts. I'll tell you, on a day like this ain't nothin' better than to stand on the Union Bridge eatin' peanuts and throwin' the shells down onto the coal barges."

"I thought we were going to Exposition Hall?"

"Sure we will. I'm jest thinkin' you might be hungry and food inside the Exposition is expensive."

Now that he mentioned it, I noticed the black emptiness of my stomach. I had only eaten peanuts once before, Jet had purchased them for us at the boardwalk. As I recalled they were fairly decent when one was hungry. "Perhaps that would be a good idea, thank you, Mr. Ewing."

"Tom. It's only fair if I gotta call you Mina that you should call me Tom." He smiled a charming, lopsided smile.

"Thank you, Tom, then."

Tom purchased a sack of peanuts and we ate them as we watched the river flow by underneath. Tom cracked the nuts with his teeth and sucked out the innards, lining the shells up along the rail. I found the shells more of a challenge for my fingers but refused to demur to such barbarities. Shell pieces littered the wooden planks at my feet. A large black barge filled with coal of almost the same shade passed beneath us, a blue and white tug smoking out ahead of it.

"There! See if you can land one on the coal," Tom said, handing me one of his shells. I gingerly took it between two gloved fingers, holding it out in front of me in mild disgust. It had been in his mouth. He threw one down. "Yeah! First try!" Given how large the barge was and how low the bridge this seemed less something to celebrate than to expect. "Now you go." He looked almost childlike in his eagerness. I released the shell. A gust of wind from below the bridge caught it and blew it into the water. "So close!" he said.

"Give me another one," I said. He obliged. I threw it down, but the wind once more stole it into the river.

"You gotta account fer the wind," Tom said. "See?" He tossed his with a slight arc, causing it to land just on the edge of the barge.

"Fine. Let me try it again." I reached for his shells.

"Hey, use yer own!" He cried, blocking me.

"I don't have any!" I protested.

"Well, make some."

I bit into a shell and dumped out the nut into my hand, tossing the shell down in an arching motion. The tiny object landed on top of a black pile of coal. I smiled triumphantly and popped the nut into my mouth.

"There, now ya got it." He laughed.

We passed the next few moments in this manner until the barge finally crept out of range. Which was just as well for we were almost out of nuts. He turned, leaning his elbows against the wooden rail. "You asked about the Monster of the Mon. There's a good deal of talk about that in Allegheny City. Just whispers, really. A couple of the younger guys in particular. Mostly friends of August Pirnack, not that you'd know who that is."

"So it is real?"

"So far as I can tell. Or at least, somethin' like that. The stories don't particularly agree. Some say it's a person, a murderer like Jack the Ripper. Some say it's an anarchist group, but if it is it's not one I've heard about. Nor any other of our agents for that matte, which is really sayin' somethin'."

"Are there many anarchist groups?" I asked.

"More than I thought there would be. Seems you find one and two more splinter off from it. 'Specially round Allegheny. Seems like every other saloon is hosting a club."

"Is that what the note the tall man passed you a note that you slipped into your back pocket after we arrived was regarding?" I asked.

"What note?" he asked innocently, but he could not resist surreptitiously checking his pocket. A look of horror flitted across his face as he realized it was missing.

I smiled, producing a small slip of paper from my sleeve. "Meurer, 49 Spring Garden, 8pm," I read aloud.

"What? When did you-?" He grabbed for the slip.

"When you believed I was trying to steal your peanut shells."

He was speechless a moment. "Why you dirty thief!"

"That does explain why you wanted to take me to the bridge almost as soon as we had arrived, he did appear impatient with waiting at the other end of the bridge."

"Well, we weren't exactly anticipating that I would have to visit the morgue when we arranged the meet last Tuesday. So you saw him straight off, huh?"

"He's not exactly inconspicuous at that height, even in those brown clothes. And it is not exactly common for a man to simply be leaning against a bridge beam for five minutes before deciding to walk across. I can only guess you invited me along so you would appear less so than he."

"You caught me. Yeah, standin' in the middle of a bridge alone just standin' tends to draw the attention. And what with evr'yone on edge about spies and all, well, can't be too careful. Nobody's gonna think anything of a man and a woman on a walk though."

"So who was that man?"

"Detective Wilbur Evans. He's been embedded here for almost a year with Group number two of the Allegheny Anarchists. They say he worked the Haymarket case as well. He was the one who convinced our informant to come forward."

"A year?" I was shocked. How long had they been anticipating the strike?

"Don't go deceivin' yourself to think this was all the strike, the Pinkertons have been watchin' the anarchist situation in Pittsburgh and Allegheny for some time now. We have another who's been here eight months. Official estimates are five hundred anarchists in Allegheny alone, but Will say's there's more'n that, in particulars in Deutschtown and Wood's Run where the Germans are. Will can't pass as German but he thinks I can, though I don't speak a lick of it."

"Aren't you German?" I asked.

"If I am mama never done told me."

"I just assumed with the jaw and all."

"Guess I could be. Don't rightly know what I am. Guess I'm what they call an American. You know, a man without a home country."

"What does the address mean?"

"It's a saloon, Henry Bauer was friends with the owner."

"Henry Bauer?"

"He and his pals, Knold and Eckert helped Berkman when he got here. We know there's more, but he was stayin' with them a while. Anyways, seems he's managed to pull some strings and get me into one of their meetings. Goddamn though! You saw him pass me the note? I coulda sworn you were lookin' out at the incline. Remember, I even pointed it out."

"So naturally that would be the last place I looked," I said.

"You Secret Service types are way too keen."

"Just experienced," I said. "Remember, I've been about this since I was eighteen."

"That long? And Mr. Bond?"

"Since he was twenty, I believe."

"And here I am startin' just two months ago."

"You've made remarkable progress."

"If'n you say so. Hey, you wanna go see the exposition?"

"Do you have another meeting?" I teased, though not without true suspicion.

"Nah, jus' figured might be good to talk a bit more. You did want to hear about what happened at Homestead. I'd hate to disappoint a lady such as yourself."

It was so strange to walk on the other side of the street from where I had been only last night. The same gulf seemed just as true from the giant red brick with its shining white trim and gleaming glass and steel as it had on the side of the slums only yards away. I felt I could no more cross over the street to the one than I had been able to the other. The building was impressive in the way of a colonial structure, the front facade bringing to mind a modern church but for the rear of the building which was a rather fascinating structure made almost entirely of steel and glass, reflecting the river and city from its sides. Tom guided me to a large brick facade trimmed in white moulding that stood in slight relief from the front of the building with three large entryways as towering as those of a cathedral. I could not help looking up in awe at the massive portal as we passed through it into a room of bromalaids and blooming exotic flowers. People milled about to the strains of a string quintet playing classical tunes. Booths of every type lined the path, some decorated to match the exotic wares they were selling, others selling popcorn, and still others meant as decorative advertisement. Small garden areas trailed between booths, Parapets, domes and spires rose up, reaching above the second story railings which looked down upon the visitors. It was certainly no Crystal Palace, but it held a charm in its own right.

Tom extended his elbow out toward me and, smiling, I took it in hand. To any passerby we were indistinguishable from a couple enjoying a stroll through the indoor park. Our conversation of no consequence to those who might otherwise be tempted to listen.

"Now then, I guess I should start from the beginning. Which, I guess would be when I signed up in Chicago. I saw a poster recruitin' for a job, didn' say what kind. I said to myself, well any job's better'n starvin' to death. Hadn't held a position since my enlistment expired ya see. So I signed up. Easy money, got me outta Chicago, seemed like a good decision. Won't say it was the worst of my life, but it's definitely on the list. I shoulda know somethin' was up when they didn' see fit ta tell me even after I had signed my name. But they didn't an' I didn't ask. From what the other's said when we all got to Bellevue station ain't none of us were told 'cept that we were gettin' on these two covered barges and we'd be pulled down the river by a tug to our location in the middle of the night to arrive in the mornin'. One of the barges _Iron Mountain_ was mostly sleepin' quarters - that was the one I was on when it all went to hell - the other had tables and a kitchen with twenty waiters, that was the _Monongahela_. Wasn't badly outfitted, neither. They had crates of uniforms and other crates of guns for when we got there. There was a man, Captain Heinde, in charge of the outfit. He was an arrogant sonuva- pardon - sonuva gun. Typical of the type, I guess. It all was goin' fine, but, ah don't know, somethin' about the way that deputy spoke to Captain Heinde didn't set right with me. Shrugged it off. Though Heinde seemed a bit jittery. Honestly, at that point I was jus' thinkin' of the promise of a hot meal served by real waiters."

"It was real nice. Better food then a lot of us had eaten in months, decent beds. But I still jus' couldn't get over the way Heinde was actin' like he expected somethin' at any moment. I'd seen captains get like that. Saw it at Pine Ridge. Where it's like they know sumpin' you don't and if'n ya did ya prob'ly wouldn't be there with 'em. Kept me from sleeping. Reckon it was good it did. We didn't know what it was or even that it was till we reached what I learned later was the Smithfield street bridge. You know, the blue one that looks like a weird pair of eyes starin' at you."

I had to admit I knew exactly which bridge he meant.

"Saw some men movin' as they saw us approach. Get up an' start runnin'. Warn't ten minutes later we heard the long whine of a factory whistle. I think a lot of us knew at that moment. Not exactly what was coming - no one there coulda predicted that or we woulda jumped off those barges into the river whether Heinde shot us or not - but you know that sinking feeling you get?"

I nodded. I knew exactly the sensation. The moment you knew a mission was about to fall apart and you would be lucky to escape with your skin.

"Wasn't more'n a few minutes when a little steamer pulled up ahead of us. Seemed a bit strange ta see a steamer so late at night. As it approached I and a few others saw the men inside pull out rifles. There was scarce enough time to get to cover before they fired on us. Then they blew their whistle, long and high. A moment later another from somewhere on the shore answered it, though it was too dark to see from where. Then another whistled and another until the whole night air was filled with their howls. And one by one the lights started comin' on on the hillside, like star poppin' out in the night sky. That was when we saw the salamander, long and fiery start to grow, snaking its way along toward the place we were distressed to find we were headed. Men rushed to the crates to grab guns and uniforms."

He stopped, took out another cigarette and lit it without letting go of my arm. "We hadn't even reached the dock when the first shots were fired from the shore. I heard the sound of breaking glass and bullets hitting metal as the men from the tug boat, the Little Bill dove for cover. Heinde assured us they had built a fence around the works, that once we were at the bank we'd be safe." He took a long drag on his cigarette. "The Homesteaders went through that fence like it was made of paper."

"It wasn't just workers and men there neither. There were women and kids, and not older kids but these women - some were holdin' a baby in one hand an' a gun in the other. There was even this old lady with a billy club. I remember her cause she gave me this." He pointed to an puffy line of scar flesh above his brow. "Kept screechin' 'bout dirty black sheep. Did worse to some of the others. But that was later."

"They didn't eve wait till we had made the wharf before the whole of the town met us there with muskets and rifles blazing. We fired a few rounds back. Then it all went quiet. But not the good kind. The eerie kind when you know sumpin's gonna happen and you can only wait for it. The Monongahela sent out their largest man, big as John Sullivan he was and pacing the deck, starin' at the Homesteaders as if darin' them to even try an' shoot him. Then came a shout from the shore, not from a man, but a woman. She was joined in a chorus of heavenly voices spewin' the most ugly and vile things you ever heard. These Homestead angels cussed and cursed, rainin' stones from above at our barges."

He exhaled a plume of smoke. "It was then the crowd got real quiet and O'Donnell stepped forward. I'll never forget it. Told us the men of Homestead were peaceably inclined. Recommended we send a committee ashore. Given what they had already done, what they would do, who knows what the would have done to a committee? He warned us that whatever we did we must not land or there would be bloodshed. I think most of us on the barges were willing to consider his suggestion. A lot of men were already talkin' how they didn't sign up to be shot at. It was then Capt. Heinde stepped out onto the deck of the Iron Mountain, the barge I was on and declared that we were agents of the Pinkerton Agency and that we had been sent to take possession of the property and guard it. I could tell from a few of the faces hidin' under the beds that this was the first time they were hearin' 'xactly what it was they had been recruited for. Then he told them we'd be goin' up there to the works and if they didn't withdraw we would mow every one of them down."

Tom threw his cigarette but on the path and crushed it with his shoe, driving it down until it was merely a spot of pale ash. "Don't know who he expected to mow them down, most of the men were too scared to do anything but cower on the floor of the barge. But it sounded impressive enough to stir the remainder of 'em. Unfortunately it was a speech better at rallying the Homesteaders. Took five men behind O' Donnell to hold 'em back so they wouldn't trample over their leader in their eagerness. Then O'Donnell said, 'I have no more to say. What you do here is at the risk of many lives. Before you enter those mills, you will trample over the dead bodies of three thousand honest workingmen.' You could see the fires of thousands of lanterns and torches glowing all around us. On both sides of the shore, from the bridges, and in the distance more fiery snakes formed to provide assistance. Let's sit for a while." He gestured to a bench and I was glad to have a seat upon it. He stepped up onto the seat of the bench, setting himself on the edge of the back, like he was sitting on a fence post. I noticed he was not wearing normal shoes but heeled leather boots with something of a squared toe. He took out another cigarette and lit it.

He exhaled heavily. "Capt. Heinde gave the order to lower the gangplank. That was when I grabbed a gun from the crate and hid myself behind the wall next to the deck so I could shoot out if the Homesteaders kept their word. Wal, a contingent of 'em, mebbe six in all, approached the gangplank and that was when Heinde told them we were comin' ashore and they couldn't stop us. One of 'em, a smaller man shouted something back like, 'Come on, and you'll come over my carcass!' and threw himself down on the gangplank with his revolver cocked and pointed at Heinde. I'm not sure he'd ever used that thing to shoot a man, but he looked like he'd had enough liquid courage to try. Of course, Capt. Heinde didn't care much for his little demonstration and brought his billy club down on the man's head. You could hear shouts from O'Donnell and his men to 'Get back!' not that it had much effect on the mob. Heinde ordered us forward and stepped onto the shore like he was confident three hundred men would follow him. He should watched where he was goin'. Set his foot on an oar and slipped, and the darn thing sprung up and hit some big slav in the jaw and knocked him out. It would have been a laugh had it not been exactly the wrong time for it to happen."

"I guess they could forgive the strike against the man on the gangplank but that second one was one too many. A man with a club rushed from the crowd and slammed Heinde with it. KNocked him right off his feet. Couldn't tell you exactly what happened next, there were two shots and the next thing I knew Heinde and the man on the gangplank were both bleedin'. One of the other captains, Cooper, I think, shouted the order for us to open fire. Might as well have been orderin' the Homesteaders cause they didn't wait for us to start to fire back. I took aim at O' Donnell who had left himself wide open. It was a perfect shot. Clean. Right through the heart." He pointed his thumb to the center of his chest, spilling ash from his cigarette onto his trousers. "Any kid coulda made it. But just as I was about to shoot another man knocked my arm an' I only grazed his thumb." He spat behind us. "A man went down in front of me, I pulled him in, bleedin' badly as he was. I fired a few more rounds into the crowd. Hard to say what missed and what hit in that mess."

"In less'n ten minutes it was over. Over a dozen Homesteaders were lyin' on the shore, some dead. Some dying. You could hear their cries from the barge. On our side weren't much different. I counted at least a dozen shot, probably more, not counting Captain Heinde who had clawed his way over the gangplank where one of the officers yanked him back on deck. Some of the Pinkerton commanders wanted to launch another assault but Potter, the good superintendent, wouldn't hear of having more blood on his hands without the sheriff's go ahead. So there we sat, waiting, while the Homesteaders carried away their wounded and dead behind a makeshift barricade of iron bricks. A few of the men on the barge asked Potter if we might head back from where we came, but he assured them that it looked like the Advisory Committee had the crowd under control and soon negotiations could take place. I guess he really believed that because he sent the tug away with Capt. Heinde and the other wounded."

"Course I wasn't about ta believe that anymore'n the others were. We could hear clear as day those Homesteaders callin' to 'Kill the Pinkertons.' I took out my knife an started cuttin' a window into the side of the barge. If they were gonna shoot me, I wanted to at least be able ta give 'em a fight. A number of the other men, the ones not hidin' under their beds, did the same. I saw O'Donnell directin' the women to leave, they weren't too keen on the idea but they did go. That was when I knew it was time to reload my Winchester. He was conferrin' with a couple'a other men, they were directin' the others about in a way that was none too encouraging. Settin' up fortifications and the like. Didn't matter what Potter said, it was clear to every man on that barge that there wasn't gonna be any negotiations. And there we were, floatin' in a tin can on the shore, no way out. Jest waitin'." Tom dropped his cigarette to the ground and lit a third.

"I suppose they decided the best thing they could do was make short work of us before we could get reinforcements. I caught the words 'national guard' a few times. They surrounded our barges with skiffs, shootin' at any man who so much as showed a toe out of cover. After a few hours, one of our captains decided to make another go of it and made his intentions known to the Homesteaders. Wal, you can imagine how that went over. Words were hardly out of his mouth before they began shooting. We fired back. It was then I heard the cannon from the other side of the river boom for the first time. The ball tore right through the metal covers like paper."

"That was when panic set in on the barges. Men went crazed. Took everything jus' to keep 'em from jumpin' into the river where the men on skiffs were waiting. The shootin' began at eight and didn't really stop after that. Minutes jus' passin' by one after another, turning to hours and hours. Moanin' from the wounded. Death all around us. Watched a cannonball strike the works, saw it send a piece of iron right through a man's head. It was enough to make even the sanest man start to lose his mind." He was staring at one of the booths, but his gaze never fell upon it. The cigarette between his fingers slowly turned to ash and wilted.

"What did you do?" I asked, almost afraid to know his part.

"Ah slept."

"You what?" I was all astonishment, I could not have heard him right.

"I'd been up since Chicago, I was tired. Nothin' was changin' anytime soon so I jest set myself down and had a nap. Wasn't like they wouldn't wake me if somethin' happened."

What sort of man could consider a hail of bullets a suitable lullaby? I marveled to myself.

He continued the tale, telling how the tug returned for them, how it had fled in a hail of bullets before reaching them. How the sight of it's flag vanishing in the distance left the men on the barges devastated. About the hysteria as they had watched the Homesteaders fill a raft with lumber and set it alight, drifting toward the barges with the intent to set them aflame as was once done to the Spanish fleet in the British Channel. This had proved unsuccessful, as had a second attempt to send a flaming flat car into the barges, which had only managed to roll as far as the water's edge before stopping. He told how the captains threatened to shoot anyone who jumped from the barges into the water. The attempts by the Homesteaders to dynamite the barges. Of the Homesteaders pouring oil into the river with the intent to set it on fire. How the hail of bullets never ceased. How one of those bullets hit a man who had been cowering under cover with his head in his hands. He described the moans and cries of agony as the man slowly bled to death on the floor of the barge, the red liquid life flowing onto the floor, sticking to their shoes. How this had finally convinced the others on the barge to formally surrender, and how their white flags had been shot from their hands when they tried.

"They refused to allow you to surrender?" I asked. He nodded. "Why?"

"Reckon they wanted us dead before the authorities could intervene."

"But three hundred men!"

"Wouldn't've made a difference if we were three thousand men. We killed seven of 'em and they were going to make each one of us pay for 'em as if we had shot 'em personally. Which, consequently, I had."

"You did mention that."

"His name was John Morris. He had a wife and kids."

"You know his name?"

"I know 'em all, even the ones we didn't kill that died because of us. I'm so tired of killing."

"I understand."

"You've killed a man."

"A few, yes."

"I still remember my first one, when I was sixteen. His name was William."

"My first was a German man named Gregory. I still remember his eyes, just staring, the city lights reflecting in them. Thinking how much they looked like stars. I've replayed it hundreds of times, trying to find another way. But he was about to shoot my partner, I had no choice." There came no flicker of recognition from my partner. I had half expected he would pull his gun on me right then. But all he did was look in his cigarette case for another and, upon finding it empty, took out a piece of rolling paper and rolled a sizable pinch of tobacco up in it to form a new one.

He lit the cigarette. "We can't change what we've done. Only live with it, I guess."

"I suppose so. What happened then? As you are still alive I can assume they did eventually allow your surrender."

"A man came from the national office of the union. He called for them to let us go. Worked about as well as those white flags. Then O'Donnell appeared on top of a pile of steel beams holding a giant American flag like he was some sort of paragon of the working man and commanded silence. The Homesteaders claim O'Donnell wasn't the leader of the mob, but I'll tell you, if you had seen how they cheered him when he appeared, how they even took their hats off jest to hear him speak, you wouldn't wonder that he was. Well the short of it is they agreed to let us off the barges, so long as we were surrendered to their custody until the sheriff could come get us. Under the condition we would be tried for murder." He threw his cigarette on the ground, only half smoked. "He assured us that if we surrendered under these conditions we would not be harmed."

"Our captains objected, but we could not bear to wait for our deaths like so many rats in a trap any longer. Again we raised the white flag and this time they allowed us to surrender. I wish I could say that was the end of it, but as bad as everything had been up until this point, it somehow managed to get even worse. The walk to the opera house was probably the longest walk of my life. It was clear O' Donnell's words were worth less than the time it took to speak 'em."

"They led us out from the barges with a man taking charge of each of us, like we was prisoners. I remember the moment I emerged from the barge, hands up. A man grabbed me roughly by the arm and took my gun from its holster. Then he yanked me down the gang plank so hard I fell in the water to the hoots and jeers of the crowd. That was when a rock got me above the eye. Could see much after that on account of the blood on one side. The man pulled me out of the water and threw me before the crowd. Fists flew at me from every angle. I felt sticks and clubs as I was pulled through the crush of people all doing their very best to get in their blow for my crime. I couldn't see anything but hands and bodies and clubs. Jest had to follow where I was being pulled from a man I could scarcely see. I felt rocks pelting me from behind, bouncing off my coat and hat. I tripped over another detective who was lying curled on the ground. There was only a bloody hole where his eye had been. A man, much like the one dragging me was jeering at him, trying to get a hold of his arm to pull him back up, but the detective clamped them to his side even as a barrage of kicks assaulted him from every angle. They flew at me as well, striking me in the side, the face, hard boots, pointed ladies shoes, even bare feet. My guard jerked me to my feet and continued to pull me through the gauntlet. I remember taking a hard blow to the gut that nearly knocked me off my feet, but I kept my ground and kept going."

"We emerged through the gate of the steelworks into the town and then our miseries truly began. We were set upon by the townspeople with all the fury of wolves starvin' for blood. I remember we reached a building that I later found out was union headquarters, the Bost building, an the man guiding me stopped, punched me in the gut and told me to remove my hat and salute the flag. I couldn't even see the flag but I reached for my hat. Wasn't fast enough for his liking and he tore it from my head and threw it on the ground, then pointed and shouted 'salute' so I did as best I could and he laughed and jerked me along. I stopped even bein' able to feel the pain anymore, just the dull thud of unceasing blows. I can't tell you the relief I felt when I was finally thrown through the doors of the Opera house and the blows finally ceased. I landed amongst a pile of men, some of whom I recognized from the Iron Mountain, some I didn't, some I couldn't for how badly beaten they were. But we were safe. Until the Homesteaders started tryin' to get in that is. "

"The man next to me told me 'This is it. They're going to kill us.' And I don't believe he was wrong. Had they been allowed in they would have probably torn us limb from limb eventually. That was when the guards finally decided we'd had enough and threatened to shoot the next person who came at us. Pitiful bloodied creatures that we were. Eventually, all of us were in and that was where we stayed with nary a nurse to tend our wounds until Sheriff McCleary arrived at midnight to escort us by train to the county jail. At least, so we thought."

"That was when Frank saw me, he was on the train waiting to receive us. The Pinkerton Agency sent him to evaluate the situation. I was a sorry sight by any measure, but he recognized me. Asked how would I like to join him in the investigation. 'Anything ta keep my head outta the noose," I says. When the train stopped at the station, he smuggled me off. From what I heard the rest of the men were secreted away in the middle of the night. Don't know what became of most of 'em. A few filed claims against the Pinkertons sayin' if they'd known what they were in for they wouldn't've signed up. The agency contacted Frick about it and he just told them it was their own fault and none of his responsibility that we weren't told. Don't mistake me, I want to get to the bottom of this rumor about Carnegie, but I wouldn't mind popping Frick one in the face myself after what he put us through."

"I can't say that I blame you."

He stood up and extended a hand to me. "It's gettin' rather late in the mornin'. What's say we get some popcorn and then send you on the train back."

I nodded and took his hand. "That sounds a fine idea," I said, squashing the pile of cigarette butts and ash under my shoe as I followed his lead.


	15. Chapter 14

"So, I will see you again on Thursday?" I said as the trolley pulled up to the station.

"What? Why?" Tom sputtered.

"For the meeting of course, at the saloon. You don't recall?"

"Now wait a minute, there ain't no way you're going to that meeting."

"Of course I am."

"No, you aren't. I won't let you. It's too dangerous for a lady."

"No more dangerous than it is for you as a new agent."

"Now hold on, I was in the calvary."

"Yes, and you'll notice this particular task is devoid of both horses and an opponent on the other side of a field."

"Are you always this stubborn? I'm not takin' you."

"Very well, I can easily attend on my own. 8 o' clock it was? The way I see it, you have no choice. You said yourself that while you might be able to pass for German in feature, you cannot speak a word of it. I certainly can pass for German as well, but, unlike you, I am proficient not only in the language but its various dialects. If it is you alone you may miss something important. Besides, they will be less suspicious of you if you are accompanied by a woman, given that they are concerned about spies. Put simply, you need me. You may either accept that fact now or later, it matters little to me."

"But-" He attempted to object, but could not find an argument. "Well what about your partner?"

"He is in Chicago at the moment, and I cannot say when he will be returning, but I am certain he would be in accord with me on this matter."

He stood for a moment, stymied. Then a half smile twitched at his lip. "Wal, I s'pose you got me."

"Good. I'm am glad you have seen sense in the matter. I will meet you here at seven on Thursday." I stepped onto the sideboard of the trolley. "Oh, and do inform The Poet that I will be attending union meetings at Homestead. As well as those in Allegheny City."

"Why both?" he called.

"You'll understand when the time comes," I said with a smile as I set myself onto the wooden bench of the open car just as it pulled away from the stop, reviewing the plan I was now forming in my mind. Roger had won over the Fricks, it was my turn to win the anarchists.

* * *

It was a few days later, on Tuesday, that I received a message from Roger that he would be returning home that day and that Mr. Frick would follow him in five days time. He said it was imperative he speak with me in private as soon as could be managed. Evening came on. I had a meeting tonight, but something in the urgency of his wording informed me that my time would be better spent in waiting. I was sorely tempted to meet him at the station but thought better of it. Finally, I heard the sound of hoofbeats on the path leading to the porte cochere. I rushed to the door with Millie in tow, followed closely by Mrs. Frick and the children. Roger leapt from the coach before it had fully halted and embraced me, his face pale, the lines of his age cleaving deeply through his flesh as they were wont to do when he had held a tense aspect for some time. Likely the entirety of the journey.

"What it is?" I whispered.

"Granger," he murmured back. A chill shot down my spine, my body stiffening in my husband's arms.

"Is he..." I couldn't bring myself to finish the question. A thousand possibilities flooded my mind. Cholera had invaded London proper by now. He was not as young as Russell.

"I don't know." The ice in my spine shot through my chest and numbed my mind. Roger released me from his arms. "Mrs. Frick, would it be possible to use your telephone? It's an emergency."

She regarded us with soft dark eyes full of sympathy and care. "Yes, of course."

"Thank you. And please request the staff leave us be.

We mounted the stairs quickly. "What happened?" asked as we reached the landing.

"He collapsed. They are not certain whether it was late last night or early this morning. Miss Moneypenny discovered him when she knocked on his office door. They haven't been able to rouse him."

"Exhaustion?" I suggested, silently praying it was not cholera. "He has been pushing himself far too hard."

"We'll know more in a moment." Roger picked up the receiver. "Hello, operator? Could you please connect me to Wilbur Evans in Allegheny City?"

"Wilbur Evans?" I asked, all astonished. "The Pinkerton?"

"Ah, good, so you've met him."

"In a manner of speaking. We've crossed paths."

"He's one of our main contact points in the city. Ah yes, hello, Wilbur? Has there been any word from Grimsby? Yes? What is his condition?" Roger's visage grew stony. "Are they certain? Yes, I understand. I'll tell her. Ring us if there is any change." He placed the phone speaker mouthpiece down on the table. He turned away from the phone, facing the wall of the diminutive wooden paneled room, arms folded, hand to his chin, fingers covering his mouth.

"What is it?"

He turned toward me, his words jumped in his throat. "His organs are failing. They are doing all they can but the outlook-" another jump behind those long fingers. "The outlook is grim. You know what this means?" I nodded. "Grimsby is currently watching the home office."

I could barely think through the haze of emotion. My mind latched on to this bit of administrative business as though it were the only hold between me and oblivion. "Yes. Have Mr. Evans tell him to continue in that position. Ask that Dr. Miller take over his role. Do you think Quentin would be willing to step in as head of research in development in his stead? Why am I asking that? I know very well the answer. Xavier will be cross, but I'd rather deal with his ire than his ideas." Xavier was a perfectly able assistant to Dr. Miller, but he had never displayed much creative talent. "That should fill the vacancies for now."

"Should we return to London?"

"That is my first impulse. But then, if we leave now, we may never have the chance to open the case again, and if he is guilty of conspiracy to commit murder I should prefer to not let him slip through our fingers. How long do you think it will take to wrap this case up?"

"I would imagine it will depend how forthcoming Berkman is."

"How forthcoming do you believe you can persuade him to be?"

"How far will you allow me to go?"

"As far as is needed."

"Yes, Madam Director."

* * *

Roger relayed my orders to Det. Evans with along with a message to The Poet to meet us the following morning at the point where the three rivers met in Exposition Park. My mind being so occupied with my new position I completely forgot that, while I had reconciled myself to Tom Ewing's unsettling appearance, Roger would be unaware of the oddity. It had not even occurred to me that there might be an issue until the moment we approached the pair and they turned toward us. On sight of Tom's face, Roger drew his pistol on the man.

"Woah! Woah! Wait a minute!" Ewing cried, his hands flying up.

"Wait!" I cried. "It's not him!"

"It certainly looks like him," Roger growled, not lowering his piece.

"I know, I thought the same, but it isn't." I drew closer to Roger and whispered, "I told him it was I who shot Gregory and he did not so much as react. I might have given any name. It's not him. If it were, one of us would most probably already be dead. Besides, if it were him, would not he have reached for his weapon, not the sky, in response to being drawn on?"

"That was a foolish thing you did."

"I know, but it was the only way to be certain."

"Hey, I don't know who this Georg fella was, but I'm startin' ta feel like mebbe it ain't such a good thing ta share his looks." Tom said, his hands still up. It was quite a thing to consider that this would be how the unflappable Georg Mueller would appear were he ever to be concerned regarding the continuation of his mortal existence.

Roger smirked, holstering his gun. "It is a rather unfortunate coincidence."

"Don't I know it. She's happy ta see me and he wants ta shoot me. Ah sure hope the next person ta think I'm him wants ta give him a sack a money."

Roger spoke out the side of his mouth, "You were happy to see him?"

"Well, you know how we've searched for him. He was part of Du Beauchene's inner circle for a time. Think of the information he could provide."

The Poet appeared weary of this. "I've heard from Evans there's been some trouble in London. Is that why you've asked us here?"

"Yes, more or less." Roger answered.

"You're not thinking to welch on our deal, are ya?" While his expression remained stony, his eyes were warning.

Roger did not seem the least bit perturbed by The Poet's expression. "No, Frank, we will stay until we are satisfied regarding Mr. Carnegie. However, given the circumstance and Mr. Granger's grave condition I believe it would be best that we interview Berkman as soon as might be managed. Today if possible."

Frank allowed a twitch of the right side of his mouth to cleave the granite. "Don't see why not. It's not as though he's going anywhere. Madam Director." He tipped his hat toward me before turning back to Roger. "Will you be conducting the interview alone, Mr. Bond, or would you prefer I join you?"

"I believe I will have the director join me."

"I don't mean any offense," words often said before giving offense, "but an interrogation is no place for a lady."

"I might be inclined to agree under other circumstances. But in this matter I believe she will prove invaluable."

"And how is that?"

I answered for my husband. "I am certain you recall Berkman's lover, Miss Goldman. There is none who know of their relations who believes he to be anything but her creature. Therefore, it would be best to recreate that very same dynamic between Bond and myself that he might be more likely to answer my questions when asked."

"And now, why would he do that?"

"It is simple, Det. Spencer, he will, whether he intends to or not, identify with Mr. Bond. The more he sees that Bond answers to me, the more likely he will as well."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then we shall persuade him."

* * *

I was glad to have some familiarity with the streets leading to the jail. We entered through the courthouse rather than the jail gate to avoid notice. I was gratified to see Mr. Gilfillan about with a sheaf of documents in one hand and an attache case in the other. I smiled at him and he gave a nod of his head in acknowledgment, eyes sparkling as if to say he was glad to see I had found my people, before he disappeared into the office designated Clerk of Court. We walked through the maw of a great granite Syrian-style archway onto a grand staircase lit by a pair of tall brass lamps topped with glass orbs glowing golden with electricity which sat upon the volutes at the base of the rail. Though it was midday and the windows large, the clouds of soot made the lamplight necessary. We ascended the grand staircase and made our way along the corridor to the Bridge of Sighs, crossing over into the jail, which, although clearly the work of the same architect had nothing of the grand feel of the courthouse. It were as though all hope failed the moment one made that final step across the threshold. Perhaps, for all the skill an architect might posses, it was impossible to create a building for such a purpose that didn't not immediately give one the feeling of being caged.

The Poet spoke briefly to one of the guards who led us to the Warden. In a few minutes we were led to an interrogation room with a guard standing at the door.

"You're relieved for lunch," the warden said. The guard left with only a word of acknowledgement. "You're welcome to him," he said, gesturing to the metal door. Through a small window in the door I could see a tall man sitting on a metal chair hands and feet shackled to the floor.

"How far will you permit us to go?" I asked.

"Try not to kill him." The warden eyed the man through the glass with unconcealed disgust. "But, if you do, do us a favor: make it look like a suicide. He's talked about it enough." He unlocked the door, opening it.

"Good day, warden," Berkman said, his thick Russian accent caressing each syllable, an arrogant smirk set upon his face below the pale grey of an old bruise. "I would say 'Good morning' but it is so difficult to tell the time of day with all the soot in the air."

"You have visitors. They want to ask you a few questions."

"A woman and a man? Perhaps journalists finally come to tell my story." Berkman caught a glimpse of The Poet and Ewing through the open door. "Wait! Warden! Who are those men?" Berkman cried, alarmed. "I know every guard here."

"I'll let you to him," the warden nodded to us before exiting back through the door.

"You are not journalists, are you?" He squinted at us. "No, you wouldn't be. They would never allow any to know what I have endured for my cause." Roger shook his head. "Then who are you?"

"We have a few questions for you." Roger said. Let him have the first words, then I would follow with the questions. Roger was not so much the leader as he was opening the door for me to walk through.

"You're English. What business do the English have with me?"

"Ideally none, depending on your answers," I asked.

"I know what you intend to ask me. I will not talk."

"What do we intend to ask you?" I asked.

"You want to know who helped me. I tell you it was no one. I did it on my own. No one helped me. You may leave now." He waved his fingers slightly toward the door, his arrogant smirk never leaving his face.

"Come now, you cannot expect us to believe that."

"Why not? It is the truth. I worked alone. No one knew anything. Until I met them here I had hardly even seen Mr. Bauer and Carl Knold."

"We are not here to speak about them. Who gave you the money for the dynamite?"

"It was from savings, and a loan a friend owed me supplied the rest."

"With the suit, the gun, and the train ticket, we know that would not have been enough."

"It was."

"What about Miss Goldman?"

His smirk flickered. "What about her?"

"We have spoken to her extensively on the matter."

"And I am certain she told you the same as I am telling you now." He turned away from me. If he could have crossed his arms to complete the posture he would have, but the heavy shackles prevented it.

"She did not." I said.

His smirk faltered, he fought to revive it. "Of course she did. You are merely trying to deceive me. Woman or man, you are all the same. If you can't get what you want by force you try trickery." He slyly glanced over to me. "What did she say?"

"That she attempted to play Sonya for you, to sell her body to raise money for you. That she received quite a sum from a man."

He jerked up, trying to stand, to come at me in his agitation. "What did you do to her? She would never tell you that of her own free will!"

"I assure you we did nothing to her except listen. She was quite proud of her actions."

"She must... she must have been... To show the sacrifices... for the cause..." he struggled with the thoughts. Then, in an instant he managed to recompose himself. "You are using your tricks on me. She may have told you such a story, to show the lengths we must go to for our cause, to prove our dedication. But that was all she would tell."

"Beyond that the man knew who she was, who you were?"

His jaw fell, leaving his mouth agape. He collected himself. "I thank you for your time, madam, it was lovely to see a female face again. But I am finished answering questions."

I nodded almost imperceptibly to Roger. "I'm sorry, but we are only just beginning," Roger said. Taking a spectacle case from his pocket he removed a pair of spidery framed glasses with round, smoky quartz lenses, and slid them over his eyes. He cracked his knuckles and moved toward the man. "I have a few questions of my own."

I had rarely watched an interrogation before. Now, I stood back watching impassively, Roger's coat lying in a rumpled pile next to my feet. He was prowling around Berkman in his waistcoat, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, knuckles bloodied, not all his own. Berkman displayed a number of fresh bruises and a bloodied lip, still he smirked arrogantly.

"Ha! You can beat me all you want, what is another beating? You won't kill me! What would your higher ups think?" Berkman spat. "You're just a dog on a leash."

"A dog I may be, but I wonder, who it is who holds that leash." He looked to me. "Director?"

I regarded Berkman imperiously.

"Her?"

"Does it surprise you?" I asked, not showing the faintest trace of emotion. "I cannot imagine why. We do take the international affairs of our citizens quite seriously. He has license to kill you if he deems it necessary. I will take care of the necessary paperwork, after."

"Permission from the crown to put a scoundrel down?" Roger asked.

I nodded.

"I'll never tell you what you want. I would have died for my cause!" He shouted. But I could see there was a fear in his eyes. He was not ready for death no matter how much he might claim he was. I had wagered on that. If he had made his peace with mortality he would have committed suicide by now.

"Mr. Bond would you please oblige him," I said. Roger leaned back to prepare for another blow.

We had been interrogating Berkman for the better part of an hour. Beads of sweat rolled from Roger's hair onto his face, reddened with exertion. He wiped a blood speckled arm across his brow, smearing both with the rosy substance.

"Now, I will ask you again. Who gave you the money?"

Berkman laughed. His mouth coated in coagulated blood that had flowed from his nose, covering his lips and chin. The blows to his head had left him giddy. His answers becoming less and less useful. He was arrogant, but also striving for significance. While he claimed he would not talk he could not seem to resist dropping useful nuggets of information confirming our suspicions. But as of yet there was nothing to indicate those suspicions led to Carnegie. "It is funny, you police are all the same, you want to know who helped me do it but you never want to know why I did it."

"You wanted to kill Frick." Roger said, intentionally taking the bait.

"Yes, but why?"

"It doesn't matter." Playing the brute. It was neccessary.

"Oh but it does matter. It matters very much. I was ready to die for my cause. For the people."

"The people don't want your death, at least not in that way. They've disavowed you."

"Only because they are frightened. But secretly they yearn for that very thing which I gave them, the knowledge that these cruel gods are merely men, who can bleed, who can die, at their hands. That they are not lowly and helpless. That they can bring down the American Olympus and its pantheon of corruption and exploitation. All they need is a spark to light the fire of revolt within them. Attentat! And I am Prometheus bringing the fire down to them." He rattled his chains and laughed almost maniacally. "And they have chained be just as they did him. But it's too late!" His eyes darted wildly, white in a sea of dark colors, an open grin across his face. "They have fire. And it's spreading. Just watch it spreading! Until it is a conflagration! And then you won't be able to put it out with your little blue bucket-heads." His head lolled back and forth. "Have you found the man in the blue suit yet?" he laughed. "Oh Nikolai! You knew. You told me! You knew it all! Is that what you wanted to hear?!" he barked at an unseen man.

Nikolai! Johann Most mentioned he had known a Nikolai in Pittsburgh. A Russian who had assisted in the assassination of the czar. I wondered if they might be one in the same. "The man in the blue suit?" I asked Roger.

"Some reports said Berkman was accompanied to Frick's office by a tall man in a blue suit, but a man fitting that description was never found. It was determined to be a spurious report," Roger whispered back.

Roger drew back for another strike. I stepped forward, placing a hand on Roger's arm. That would be enough. Another blow and Berkman might loose consciousness. "Will Carnegie be toppled as well?" I asked.

"Carnegie? Carnegie!" he crowed. "The great fornicator Zeus. He cannot be content with only one industry, he must have his way with them all! They'll have him! They'll topple his temple! Burn it to the ground. If only he wasn't in... that country," he waved vaguely, his mind to addled to find the name. "They will all fall! They will all catch fire from my flame!" he cackled.

"Mr. Bond, I believe we may take our leave now."

Roger nodded, took up his coat and we left the room to the sound of Berkman's laughter.

"Did you learn what you needed?" The Poet asked.

"Enough," I said

"Did he give you any names?"

"Not intentionally. Have you heard of a man, most probably a Russian, by the name of Nikolai?"

"No."

"It's the second time I have heard that name from the lips of a New York anarchist. He said this Nikolai had known something important."

"Any idea as to what?"

"No. But it did not sound as though they had ended on good terms, as though they had been in disagreement."

"What about Carnegie?" Tom asked.

"No. He is far too in love with his attentat to allow it to be compromised by money he would feel to be unclean. He is no mercenary for hire. This was the brainchild of he and Miss Goldman. But this Nikolai concerns me. There's something unsettling about the way Berkman spoke to him."

"To him?"

"He was addled, I believe he lost his sense of place and time. There was just something in his speaking, in his posture - I think he had been in a similar circumstance before. This Nikolai may possess important information about this case. I'd like to stay another week or two. As much as I am relieved to clear Carnegie, I do not wish one of Scotland's most prominent citizens to be murdered upon his return home."

* * *

That night I asked Mrs. Frick if I might use the telephone. As I waited for Det. Evans to pick up the receiver I noticed a piece of paper sicking out from one of the letter boxes. It was a cable postmarked July 4, 1892 to Carnegie in Morgan, London. I pulled it from the box and read: _Small Pond Pony Plunge Repairing Pond Pony Choke Watchman Arrive Plunge Morning Board. Early._


	16. Chapter 15

"How is the old man?" Roger asked from the bed where he was lying, back propped slightly up against the headboard. His smile and familiar tone belying the anxious gleam of his eyes. He was steeling himself for the worst.

"He is still alive, though the doctors aren't certain how."

Roger smirked. "He's a tough one. He won't go down so easily."

"They say the next twenty-four hours will tell. His family is with him now."

Roger released a sigh. "Nothing to do but wait. Are you certain you wouldn't prefer to return home?"

"Absolutely," I said, setting myself upon the bed. "I found this in the letterbox at the telephone desk. I'll return it tomorrow but I feared it would make even less sense were I to write it out."

"Small, pony, plunge..." Roger read aloud. "It's a code. A cipher?"

"No, I don't believe so. A personal code."

"I despise those. They often require at least one of the parties to become careless to decode all parts."

"I know, dear, you have heard me rail against them day and night."

"Well, it would be nice if your Frenchman would use fewer of them."

"Consideration was never one of his strong points, and he is certainly not my Frenchman."

"But he wishes to be." Jealousy. It was not a trait Roger often displayed. His fear for Granger's life was leading him to fear the loss of mine as well.

"He could wish to be the king of the continent and that would be more likely than that he should ever possess me. But that is beside the point, it is dated July 4th."

"Two days before the conflict with the Pinkertons," Roger nodded.

"Look at where the cable was sent to."

"Carnegie in... London. This is proof of conspiracy! Andrew Carnegie conspired with Frick to send those Pinkertons to the works."

"But it is not a crime," I said. "Though I dearly wish it were. I would have agents to Rannoch this very moment if I could. There are others. Frick has been constantly contacting Carnegie regarding the Homestead situation. There was another to London the day following the incident regarding a small plunge and assuring Carnegie they would keep their position, that it was unassailable. Another on the 11th saying the sentiment was with them and the entire state guard was moving to plunge early. I suppose that was when the national guard was to arrive. On the 18th he mentions seven warrants issued for murder - I imagine those were to be against the Homesteaders."

"Of course. Well, it could be counted as conspiracy to commit murder. The Pinkertons were armed with Winchesters, it is clear a skirmish was expected, one where the use of deadly force was considered acceptable."

"But the barrister would argue a lack of murder charges filed in America."

"Didn't O'Donnell say there had been a murder charge against Frick?"

"Yes, but it was dropped."

"Still..."

"It's not enough for a case. What is this all about? I thought you liked Mr. Frick."

"I do. For the most part he is an amenable chap, if a bit overly inclined toward talking about paintings beyond endurance. But to show such callous disregard for the lives of others, particularly those in his employ, is something that cannot be allowed to stand unchallenged. Are you certain the charges might not be renewed with this information? Perhaps (oh what do they call them in America?) a lawyer might be consulted? But then you would be hard pressed to find one that is not so loyal to Frick or sympathetic to the steelworkers as to let that blind them."

"Actually," I said remembering back to my first day in Pittsburgh. "I think I might know such a man."

* * *

"I must admit, when I came upon you on the street I never would have figured you for a foreign agent," Mr. Gilfillan said, standing behind his desk where he had only finished pacing a moment ago after hearing our story. "No less the director of the Secret Service."

"To your credit I was not the director until yesterday," I replied. Roger and I were sat in wooden chairs in Mr. Gilfillan's law office off of Smithfield. Mr. Gilfillan took his seat behind the desk.

"Still, a woman director," he marveled. "Well, I suppose it's not out of keeping for the British to have women running things."

"Does it bother you?"

"Not a bit."

"That does surprise me."

"If you knew my sisters you would understand." He smiled warmly, eyes flitting to a framed photograph of three woman who may have been plain in feature, but eyes that said it was they who ran the household.

"Will you take the case?"

He shuffled a stack of papers, straightening them into a neat pile. "I can't say I'll be of much assistance, once a case like that is closed there's usually no way to have it reopened, but I'll look into it."

"Anything you can find for us would be most appreciated."

"Well, I should, at the very least, be able to get you the court records you asked for. I imagine if the papers failed to report it then the same people who orchestrated that will have buried those as well. But I do enjoy a challenge. I hadn't even heard warrants were put out and here you tell me it was the headline in New York. I knew he had influence, but to interfere with the press... I think I'll have a talk with Chris Magee, see what he has to say about it."

"Chris Magee?" I asked.

"He's the boss around here. Nothing happens in Pittsburgh politics that he doesn't have a finger in. McLuckie'll probably have something on the matter as well. You said they were filed by Hugh Ross?"

"Correct."

"Might see him about it as well. Don't want to say too much though. If anyone thinks there's a even possibility the case might be reopened it could galvanize both sides to action, and with the national guard encamped it could be Union Station all over again."

I did not know the incident to which he referred, but nodded my head. "Of course, act at your own discretion. We are only grateful for any help you might give."

We left the office after bidding cordial goodbyes with Mr. Gilfillan.

"Would you prefer to go home for lunch or eat out?" Roger asked.

"If it is all the same, I should prefer to take lunch at Clayton. I do enjoy taking meals with the girls." I said, turning toward the rail station.

"You mean Helen and her shadow?" Roger teased.

"They really are quite attached. They truly are like sisters. But beyond that it does seem to have a cheering effect on the boy when we are there."

"That is because you ask him questions."

"Mrs. Frick does as well."

"But you actually listen to the answers."

"Hey!" a voice cried from down the street. Hey! Mrs. Mueller! Hey!" A large hand grabbed my elbow. I turned to see the Polish features and muscled body of Joe Kowalchek, wide smile beaming like the sun.

"Is this your husband, Georg?" Kowalchek asked, taking a large bite from his sandwich.

"Georg?" Roger repeated in surprise.

"No, this is my lawyer." The man had already assumed scandal, I might as well allow him to see the conclusion of that narrative.

"I'm sorry to hear that. But I suppose he's made his bed and there's no obligation for you to keep sleeping in it. He did seem a little overdressed for a steel man."

"Obviously," Roger muttered.

"It is for the best. He confided to me he intended to become a black sheep at the Homestead Works and I simply hated the idea of being wife to a man who would give up his principles for money. But it seems he had no principles to surrender, anyhow." I finished bitterly.

"You're a better woman than he deserves. You stand with the Homesteaders?"

"Of course I do! If we don't stand for ourselves than who will?"

"Well spoken. Hughey O'Donnell would like you."

"I'm flattered. Do you know him?"

"Sure I do! I've met him quite a few times at the Homestead meetings."

"You attend the meetings?"

"Whenever I can. If one Union falls we can expect to fall with it. They aren't going to keep our wages where they are if Carnegie is paying less. So we've all got to pull together. What is that saying Ben Franklin used to say? We must hang together or we'll all hang separately. McLuckie likes to say that a lot." Kowalchek said, polishing off his sandwich.

"It is a fine saying."

"Hey, I've got an idea. Why don't you come with me and Ralph this Sunday to the meeting over in Homestead. I'm sure you remember him? He'd be tickled to see you again."

"I do apologize, but I'm not certain I should given my circumstances," I said, demurring. My attorney gave a firm nod. "I am not even legally divorced yet."

"I don't mean as a date or I wouldn't've mentioned Ralph. Nothin' personal, but I'm engaged. Wouldn't be the proper thing. Just thought you might find it interestin' given what you said and would rather go with a couple of friends."

"Well, if it is only as an invitation from a friend, I suppose it would be... ok." Such a foreign word! So strange to use.

"I'll tell Ralph! Where should we meet you?"

"Here is fine. I only live a few streets away, but I should prefer my husband not see you. I don't want to give him the ammunition of catching me with strange men."

"That's fine. Here's as good as anywhere. My brother, Grant, will be coming along, too."

"Grant? That's an odd name."

"You think that's odd? You should've heard what my pap wanted to call me! Abraham Lincoln Kowalchek, if you can believe it. But my ma insisted that since I was first I should be named after her father."

I laughed. "Abraham Lincoln?"

"Yeah. See pap came over just before the war and he was only too glad to join the effort. He'd been a soldier when he left, so it was easy enough work. Abraham Lincoln and Ulysses S. Grant were two of the first American names he learned and he loved 'em like they were his own family, pictures on the mantle of them and everything. I think my brother would've been Ulysses if he could've spelled it. So he's Grant Lincoln instead."

"How very Presidential."

"I keep telling him he should run for something. Name like that, who wouldn't want to vote for him?"

"I don't know." A whistle blew as I spoke.

"Holy smokes, I'm gonna be late. I'll meet you here after early Mass." He turned as he waved, "Maybe around ten if we want to be there in time to get a good seat. Good to see you again!" he called and ran off toward the steel mill.

Roger eyed me coolly. I wasn't certain which chastisement would fall from his lips first. "Mrs. Georg Mueller?" he said still not looking directly at me.

"It was the first name that came to mind."

"Not Mrs. James Bond?" There was no mistaking his tone, he was magnificently cross with me.

"It's... it is complicated. I had been trailing Ewing thinking he might be Georg - this was before we had become acquainted -"

"Before you had become acquainted with him? Was that the evening we arrived or the morning? For there was no other time you might have. And how do these millworkers know you? They aren't from any of the Carnegie works." He trailed off, suddenly a bright gleam of realization appeared in his eye and his lips twisted into a smile, then a grin. "You were lost. That is what delayed you so long in returning to the hotel."

"I wasn't lost!" I protested.

He looked at me, his eyes shining with mirth. "The millworkers, the attorney, Tom Ewing, - admit the truth, you were lost, just as I warned."

"I wasn't lost... I was just temporarily unable to place my surroundings."

"And how misplaced were these surroundings, I wonder?"

"A lady never tells her secrets."

"You forget I possess a unique set of skills that, when exercised, will cause you to reveal all once we are home and in private."

"How much you underestimate me, Mr. Bond."

"Do I? Or is it I who have been underestimated?"

It turned out it was I who had underestimated him, for by the time we were called for lunch I had revealed all, much to the increase of his mirth.

* * *

"Are you already leaving for the Anarchist's soiree?" Roger asked as I pulled out my longest coat after having put Millie to bed that evening. It would cover my plain clothes almost to the hem of my brown cotton skirt. It was a simple shirtwaist style matched with a worn pair of black boots, similar in fashion to Sarah's, though far humbler and I was not near so handsome in it. A simple ribbon banded straw hat would finish the look quite nicely.

"Yes, dear. I am meeting Det. Ewing at Exposition Park in an hour and we'll walk the remainder of the way together. It will be more convincing that I am a resident of Allegheny City that way. Then he will walk me home by way of a place known as Pig Hill where he has a room."

"So you are pretending to be a couple?"

"Of course, but only in the anarchist sense. I must admit the disordered style of their relationships does make things a great deal easier. A woman may one day come with a man and then detach herself from him some weeks later and no one questions it."

"I'd still prefer it were I going."

"There is no need to be jealous, Roger, even if the model is course, a woman still has her propriety. But there is something I did wish to have your assistance in."

"And what is that, darling?"

"I thought I might have Ewing arrange for us to have a visit to the evidence locker tomorrow."

"Whatever for?" Despite his relaxed tone and posture his eyes were keen, he knew I would not ask him along without reason, too much of my work was tied to my single status. Come tomorrow it would be a risk to even venture into the city with him.

"I wondered if we might have a look at the explosives Berkman used and you have a far keener eye than I do when it comes to incendiary devices and signatures. I have not spent so much time chasing the Remnant to ignore the language of explosives, even if I cannot speak it fluently."

"Always the clever one. We still have most of tomorrow before Frick returns, I should be able to get away."

"I'll tell Mrs. Frick we are going on a shopping trip. I'll even be certain to invite her along. Don't worry, she won't come."

"You are sure?"

"I don't think she's left the property, let alone Point Breeze, for anything other than church in a month." I could not imagine venturing out of the bubble of privilege that was Point Breeze to confront the cruelty of a world that held little sympathy for the Fricks. Many felt that perhaps her husband should have died, or, at least, that he deserved to feel the sting of the suffering he caused. That she had also lost her child during that span garnered little softness for her. It was a mere fact of life, and one more commonly shared by those of the lower classes who not only had to worry about cold and disease but starvation. Her son may be dead, but he had died warm and well fed - a state of being some children of the ghetto would never know.

Even in Point Breeze it seemed the other women did not know what to do regarding her. There were some who came to call, but it was plain their numbers had once been higher. The glances she had received at church spoke greater volumes than could be put to paper in a year. She was alone in her sufferings, and becoming more isolated with every passing week. Her friends would return, when she had come back to herself (in action if not in mind) but how great might the chasm in her heart have grown by then? Could the gulf ever be spanned by pleasantries and supper parties? Or would it continue to consume until she had become a hermit surrounded by her so-called friends?

"I can't say I blame her."

"No, nor can I."

* * *

Tom Ewing was waiting for me at a bench by the peanut vendor, leisurely pulling peanuts from a sack, cracking them, and scattering the shells on the ground for the pigeons to peck at. He stood as I approached, upsetting the sack. The pigeons flocked to the spilled nuts. "Ah! Mina." he said with his slightly uneven smile. "You're here. Are you ready?"

"Of course."

It was a rather long walk from Exposition Park to the saloon on Spring Garden, though Tom managed to make the journey an amusing one by telling tales of the American West. Whether the exploits of these mountain men were true or not seemed beside the point. In Ewing's opinion the West was where truth and fable were merely words that melted into the painted hills and monument valleys. As insubstantial as a sandstorm. "That there's the street to Pig Hill. You just follow down Rialto to the end and you'll come to the 30th street bridge. That'll take you into the Strip District. You should be able to catch the trolley from there."

"You aren't going to walk me there?"

"Depends. Probably not though. It'd attract some attention from the landlady to come in and go right back out. They have me on the first floor, so you can jest climb out the window."

I raised my brow. "You would expect a delicate woman to climb out the window?"

"I'm from the West ma'am. Climbin' out a window ain't nothin' for a Western woman."

"Aren't you afraid for my safety going through the city alone?"

"After what Frank told me you did to that lecher at the blockhouse - well I think you can take care of yerself. I'd prolly jest get in the way."

I smiled. "More than likely. It depends how good of a shot you actually are."

He winked. "Wal now, I gotta leave some mystery."

Though we were early it seemed the saloon was already quite packed. A trio consisting of a man and two women played button boxes while others danced to the spritely Germanic music. Tom looked at me, "Well, Miss, shall we have a dance?"

"No," I demurred. "I am dreadful as a dancer."

"That's only because you ain't had the right partner. Come on now, we gotta make it convincing. We're a couple, remember? Unless you want me to kiss you?"

I caught a glimpse of the tall man, Evans, watching from a shadowed doorway. His eyes shifted toward a man at one of the tables downing a stein of beer. He must be the leader of the group. The man had wavy brown hair streaked with grey at a length and unkempt, floppy style to give him the appearance of a man of the people. His beard, for he had a rather ugly one that was not full enough to be complimentary to his features, was similarly brown with grey patches. His triangular face was deeply lined at the eyes and mouth in a manner suggesting he was more prone to smile than frown. He was gesticulating widely as he appeared to be regaling his table mates with a story that may have been rather bawdy, judging from his motions. "No. Fine, we will dance. But you were warned."

Tom took me in his arms with a firmness I had not expected of him, his hand spread at the small of my back. I leaned into it. "There. Ya see. You know how to dance jest fine. Jest follow me." And with that he dashed us along the floor in small, going round and going in small circles to the polka. There was a precision in his step and movement that was in no way else reflected in his personality. Perhaps this was the dead shot that had even managed to impress Det. Herbert Spencer. It felt incongruent though. The two could not possibly exist as different aspects of the same man. The natures opposed far too much. The personality of a retriever with the disposition of a wolf.

The music ended. "Would you care for another dance?" Tom ask.

"No," I answered with a hand to my brow. "I'm feeling a bit dizzy. It's been quite some time since I last danced a polka." Tom led me over to a table near the middle of the establishment. "Who is that man over there?" I asked, indicating to the man drinking from the glass stein.

"That's Johannes Gruber. He's speaking tonight."

"Is he the leader?"

"Nah. But he's good at gettin' a rise outta the people." Tom raised two fingers to the bartender who acknowledged the gesture with a nod. Two steins of beer arrived at the table moments later.

"I'm sorry, I don't drink," I said.

"That's ok, they're both for me." He gathered the two steins to his chest. "And a water for the lady if you would," he called to the waitress. "I don't want to order while Gruber is speaking and I imagine with this many people it's gonna get hotter than the Nevada desert."

"Tom!" an inebriated man shouted across the room in a think German accent. He crossed the room followed by a pack of three others. "Didn't think I'd ever see you at a meeting."

Tom stood up and embraced the man, clapping him hard on the back. "Well maybe if youse guys woulda invited me I woulda come sooner." His accent had changed instantly. It was something akin to the New York accents, but with a slacker jaw.

"And who's this little lady?" the man asked. "Don't tell me you've been in town a month and already found yourself a girl?"

"Then I won't tell you, but it won't change the facts."

He swore in German. "You come here from Philadelphia and in two months have a job and a woman. I've been here for five years and I barely have the one."

"Guess I'm just that charming." Tom said, falling back into his chair.

"It's because you don't have a German accent. They know you'll be promoted before us."

"Sure, blame that if it makes you feel better. You're the one going to the saloon every night and showin' up to work three sheets to the wind."

The man laughed and slapped Tom on the back. "You're alright! Mind if we join you and the little woman?"

"Not at all."

The man directed his cohorts in German, "You fellows sit there, and I'll have a seat in this lady's lap."

"You'll do no such thing!" I scolded in low German.

"You got yourself a German girl! You lucky cur! Now I know she's only seeing you for the English."

"Just keep telling yourself that."

A man walked up to the front of the bar and the room quickly silenced. "Good evening comrades," a man who was as well dressed as his shabby clothing would allow said. "I wish to welcome you to our meeting tonight. Our speaker tonight will be Johannes Gruber. Johannes?"

The man whom Tom had pointed out to me drained his stein, pounding it on the table and stood, extending his arms out to uproarious applause. He twitched his fingers to indicate they should applaud louder and they obliged him. "Comrades!" he shouted with a wide grin across his face. "It is day 71 of the Homestead Steelworker's Strike!" A cheer rose from the crowd. "And it is still going strong!" The cheer became uproarious. Man hoisted their drinks, sloshing alcohol out onto the tables, the floor, and, in some cases, each other. "We open this meeting by saluting those brave men and women who are fighting the good fight for fair wages! Ein prosit!" The men toasted.

"Socialism," he began. "Anarchy. Nihilism. To the capitalist these words are as offensive as the foulest curse. The bawdiest song a hymn compared to the Intenationale. But their time is coming to an end and they know it. Our time is nearing. It is the natural end of man, of the universe, to come to anarchy. It is how we began. In the earliest days of man we hunted and gathered and shared our bounty equally amongst the tribe. If times were good, they were good for all. And if times were lean, well it was lean for all. But man became corrupt. He decided that some were worthy of receiving more with less work. And thus politicians and priests were born. Tricking people into believing they were necessary when they were no more than parasites taking more than their share while contributing nothing. And then came the capitalist! The man who makes his living off the backs of others. Off of their enslavement to his mills." He continued for some time to detail the rise of capitalism as a perversion of the ideal original order. How there was plenty for all to live off of and that the scarcity we now felt was merely an illusion created by the wealthy in order that they might continue to gain more than they could possibly spend in ten lifetimes while exploiting those who did the actual labor. He discussed the fear of the capitalist of his workers, comparing it with the fear of the plantation owner for his slaves and how said owners kept their slaves from rebelling.

"Has Frick not proved what we always were afraid to admit? That we, men, are simply the slaves of the mill owners? That there is no amount of work we might do that gives our lives value to men such as he. The moment we ask for our fair share our lives become worthless. He sent armed Pinkertons. He didn't have to send them with guns, there was no need. Their mere existence proves he regarded the lives of those men as rubbish, that once they were no longer stoking his fires they might as well be dead." Members of the crowd shouted words of affirmation to this point. They were clearly held in his thrall. He continued stoking the flames of outrage in the men. "But rather than see the cruelty inherent in the system, they embrace it all the harder. They send out spies to dupe the good men who are merely trying to fight for a wage." He had said it. Spies. From the relish with which he bit off the words I could see this had been his main point from the beginning. "I know we each would like to think we would be able to spot a spy. But that is just allowing our pride to guide us. And I do not need to remind you what pride comes before. I admit, even I did not suspect those two men in Duquesne were Pinkertons until they revealed themselves. I was a fool like the rest of us. And there is reason to believe they aren't the only group that has been compromised. There very well might be spies in our midst tonight. I want each of you to think. Think hard. Is there anyone here among you whom you do not recognize? Or who began work during the strike? Someone who's presence here is a surprise to you."

"Sounds like you, Tom," the man nudged Tom in the ribs.

"Well it's not," Tom sounded offended.

"Are you sure you aren't a spy, I mean who invited you to come tonight?" The German man was still clearly joking, but there was a dawning of realization in his eyes.

"Hey, wasn't he hired right after the attack?" a weaselly looking blond German with a profusion of cutaneous affection sprayed across his face that trailed below his collar despite his age. "Does seem a strange time to be coming from Philly looking for work as anything but a schwartzschaf."

Black sheep. A non-union worker. They were correct, it was strange.

"Hey, I ain't no black sheep! And I ain't no spy. I just had to get outta Philly." Tom protested. He still was trying to maintain a jocular manner, but his eyes glanced to his hip where his gun was concealed. "Quit joking around. People are gonna think you mean it, Mutt."

"Well, maybe we do," a large man with a thick black beard who sat behind me said. Tom was in trouble. He had been made.

"What's going on over there?" Gruber said. All eyes turned to our table.

"We're just asking a few questions to this spy," Mutt said.

"I'm tellin' youse I ain't no spy."

"Then who invited you?"

"Does it matter?"

"I'd say it matters a lot," Gruber said. "Tell us, who did invite you?"

"It was I," I stood. "I invited him. He did not want to draw attention to me."

"And why is that, my dear?"

"If you must know, it is because he did knew there were those among us who were still tied to the patriarchal beliefs of the capitalist system who would put a woman such as myself to shame."

"And what kind of woman might you be?"

"An independent one who knows her own mind and owns her own fate."

"Interesting, and might I ask your name?"

"Until yesterday you might have named me as Mrs. Georg Mueller, but today you may call me Wilhelmina."

"Where did you hear about our meetings?"

"From my husband. But he was a traitor to the movement as well as to myself."

Gruber raised his brows in good natured surprise. "I see. And who told him?"

I told a deep breath. It was a risk, but one that, if it were to be believed, would pay dividends. At the very least it would be some hours before it could be disputed. "Mr. Carl Knold."

"Carl, you say?"

"Yes, some months ago. I wanted to attend but my husband would not hear of it. He said we would have our names put on lists."

"And so you will be. Are you not afraid?"

"To be counted among those who fought for the workingman?"

"You support the strike?"

"Of course I do. But they should feel no need to strike to begin with!" I said, recalling the words uttered to my on a couch in my eighteenth year by a man long gone. If Nicholas were good for nothing else, might his words of dissent at least profit me here. "A strike is only the working man asserting his need to survive - if they were provided for adequately, paid a fair wage for their work and given a safe place to labor in, then they would see no reason to strike. Unions are merely the voice of the worker and that is a voice that, as the owner, they should want to hear; not silence."

Gruber's mouth hung open a moment before twisting into a smile. "Well said Wilhelmina, well said, indeed." He clapped his hands together in applause. Others around the room joined in. "I admire a strong woman. You remind me of an old friend of mine. And this man?"

"He is my companion."

"For the evening?"

"We shall see about that."

"Perhaps you might be willing to trade company?" he suggested, the glint of the rake in his eye.

"Independence of mind does not equate to impolite. And I enjoy his company."

"How do you know him?"

"Happenstance. He shops at the same grocery. We have spoken here and there for a few months. When he learned of my husband's actions he made his affections known and he has been my companion since then. If you expect that I should be ashamed, I am sorry to disappoint you."

"No, you do not disappoint me. I should say I'm intrigued to hear more. Perhaps after the meeting?"

"Not this week. I am meeting my lawyer early tomorrow."

"Next week, then?"

"Perhaps." I allowed.

"I will look forward to it." He smiled and backed off. "Let that be a lesson to you all: don't just jump to accusations, that's how they intend to divide us, by creating suspicion. If you do suspect someone of being a spy tell one of us and we'll investigate, don't just take it into your own hands. We already have a list of suspected spies we are looking into. Trust that we will root them out and send them to whatever the proper ends for their monstrous actions might be," he said this with a knowing wink. A few other men at the tables smiled as if they were in on the joke. I wondered if it were the invocation of the word monstrous meant to imply this end had something to do with the fabled Monster of the Mon.

Gruber finished his speech to uproarious applause. It had been quite stirring, even if the content was certainly of only the most superficial variety typical of propaganda. He had a way of appealing to the people that made no pretense of being above them. He worked in the stockyards on Herrs island with the very pigs which had earned Rialto street its name of Pig Hill. He favored allusions to those very swine. How they were kept complacent and careful herded to their slaughter. How any one of those pigs could overpower and devour a man, and were they to understand their fate, they might. But as it was, so long as they had enough food for their bellies they thought nothing of revolt. And was that not the same condition of the American worker? So long as they were able to survive in some degree of consistency and comfort they never dared to ask for more.

He did attempt to order a drink for Tom and I, but I politely excused us. "What were you doing?" Tom asked, flabberghasted, as we left the lights of the saloon behind us. "We had a chance to get in with Johannes Gruber! I coulda worked for months and never got so close. Here you got him beggin' you for a pretty word and ya leave!"

"For a man, you certainly know little of them. Had I satisfied him tonight he would have been just that: satisfied. He would have thought little more of me than any of my words he might wish to steal for later speeches. But now he will be forced to wonder on me for a week. By next Thursday he will have built me up so high that I might recite the dictionary and he would think it brilliant."

"Now why is that?"

"Because he has expended the time and energy to think on me, and a man never likes to belief such valuable favors bestowed without reason." I allowed a smirk.

"Wal, I sure hope yer right about that."

"Back to your Western accent I see. The one you used in there was Philadelphia, correct?"

"Yeah. Story is I got in a bit of a situation in Philly and decided to come out here."

"And what situation was that precisely?"

"Bar fight. Wronged a woman and her brothers came after me. Did a job for the Irish that angered the Italians. Gambling debts. Story changes every time I tell it." He flashed a smile. "So you're Mrs. Georg Mueller." He winked. "Guess I should be flattered seeing as we look the same."

"Given his philandering, I'm not certain."

"At least I'm popular with the womenfolk."

I rolled my eyes.

"You were made tonight. You really must be more careful. I may not be able to save you the next time."

"I can handle myself if it ever gets too hairy." He patted the gun concealed at his hip. "So, I guess this means you're staying another week?"

"That has yet to be determined. We will see what tomorrow holds."

"For my sake I hope you are. To be able to get this close to Gruber? You must be my lucky charm."

"I think he'd prefer you were less present."

"Yeah, but you know, you enjoy my company."

"I believe that also has yet to be determined."

* * *

The next morning Evans called early to inform us Granger was still hanging on to life, though his doctors were far from optimistic. He delivered a message from Grimsby requesting our return date.

"I cannot say for certain, likely not until next month," I said.

"I don't think he'll be happy to hear that. He sounded rather anxious for your return," Evans voice crackled through the line.

I covered the microphone piece with my hand. "Grimsby? Anxious?" Roger raised his brows in response. It was difficult to imagine the saturnine Grimsby as anxious. Even when his son had been discovered a traitor he had been less furious than lugubrious. "Tell him it will not be for much longer, but we cannot return just yet."

Roger and I excused ourselves for a sojourn downtown to go shopping. Mrs. Frick expressed her regrets that she was not feeling well enough to join us, though it was clear the words were merely perfunctory and she would just as soon stay home. The Poet met us at Police headquarters where Assistant Superintendent Silvis guided us to the evidence locker.

Once seated before Berkman's explosives Roger examined them carefully with a number of tools and solutions. Rubbing the material between his fingers he scowled slightly. He bent the materials and finally bit into it much to the horror of the watching deputy as well as my own.

"Roger!" I said. "What are you doing?"

"They're forgeries."

"What?" Silvis cried, stunned. "What do you mean, forgeries?"

"Exactly that. They are certainly very good forgeries. They contain enough of the components of dynamite they would pass the examination of one who was not terribly well educated in the subject, such as Berkman, but they are no more harmful than a firecracker. Someone wanted to make certain that even were he to try, he could not detonate Mr. Frick's office."

"Who would do that?" Silvis asked.

"Someone who intended him to fail. Do we know who sold him the explosives?"

"No, he never gave a name."

"Any suspects?" I asked.

"No."

"Might I speak with him?"

"You can try, but I doubt he'll speak back."

"It's not entirely necessary that he does."

"Would you like me to come with you?" Roger asked.

"No, I think this would better be handled alone."


	17. Chapter 16

The deputy assistant warden, Mr. Benny, led me to a cement walled interrogation room, the same as the one before. Berkman sat in the center of the room on a metal chair bolted to the floor, his hands and feet shackled by the same heavy chains. His angular face was cast in dark shadows, made all the darker from the pooled blood of the vessels Roger had broken. The bruises added menace to his otherwise almost comical appearance. Not all were from Roger, and not all were old.

"I see you have had other visitors?" I said.

He spat a short, barking laugh. "No. Just my morning wake up call from Benny's screws." He gestured to a purpling line on his jaw. "Now I will not need to shave for a few days. I'll grow a beard. Hah. Wouldn't father be proud. A proper Hebrew beard. Perhaps some earlocks next." He twisted his fingers within the manacles to emulate the curling locks common to Orthodox Jews.

"Your explosives were duds," I said, flatly.

"Well, that is a surprise. I wonder who could have told you that? I should say it's rather obvious given that you are standing here speaking to me."

"No. All of them were duds."

There was a momentary spasm of surprise on his face, but it was only there an instant before he recovered his suspicious mien.

He wave his fingers dismissively. "Caveat emptor, I believe they say."

"It was manufactured in Pittsburgh." His black eyes widened with realization, he looked as though about to say something but then shut his mouth. I allowed the corners of my lips to turn up. "There was a large amount of powdered anthracite mixed in. At least they had the courtesy to make a good fake, it would have ignited if you were to test it. That is all. Have a pleasant day Mr. Berkman." I turned to leave.

"Wait!" he cried.

"Yes?" I turned slightly to face him.

A slow smirk slithered across his lips. "Have they found my suitcase yet?"

"No, Mr. Berkman, I believe it is still lost. Farewell."

I heard a faint chuckle from behind. "A fence. Nicholai, you rat. You planned it all." The laughter grew as I left the cell and walked down the corridor followed by the echoes of his howls.

As I stepped onto the Bridge of Sighs three men melted out of the shadows to flank me. "Nicholai." I said to the man on my right.

"So he gave up the name?" Roger asked.

"I don't think he could resist given what he had just been told, though he attempted to conceal it. He likely believes he gave me nothing but nonsense, but, in truth, gave me everything."

"So you were correct that if he were to believe he had been deceived he might give us the confirmation we needed?"

"Yes, arrogance cannot suffer being the fool. It must reassert itself. But it was your idea to claim the false explosives were from Pittsburgh."

"I'm a little surprised he believed it." The Poet said. "Anthracite is common to the entire State. It could've come from anywhere."

"Which informs us he had reason not to trust someone here. A fence, he said, after he asked about his suitcase. Then, again, Nicholai. Nicholai, you rat. You planned it all."

"Do you think he might be the same one that Gruber mentioned?" Tom asked from behind me.

"And Most. I think they are all one in the same."

"So who is this Nicholai fella?"

"Most said he was a Russian who had been involved in the assassination of the Czar."

"Are ya sure? I mean, in America a man can claim he was anything without it bein' true."

"It is possible it was only a tale, but given his position in our investigation it is best that we assume the claim is true."

"That would make him the most dangerous kind of radical," Roger said.

I nodded. "The true believer. There is nothing they would not do for their cause."

"Berkman said the words a fence," the Poet said. "Do you think he was talking about the explosives?"

"Yes. I think when he asked about the suitcase he unconsciously wanted me to realize what had happened."

"Unconsciously?" Tom appeared confused.

"Simply put, it is not in his nature to disappoint a powerful woman. Even though he may wish to keep his secrets, he finds he must, at the very least, give her some means to conclude the answer. Then it is up to her to prove her worth. In this case he wish for me to realize that he had been used by Nicholai as a fence, albeit unwittingly. He purchased the explosives from the recommended buyer, brought them from New York, and then delivered them to Allegheny City, where Nicholai switched them for the fakes and then took the suitcase with the originals. Which would mean-"

"That Mr. Grimsby is going to be most disappointed," Roger interrupted.

"He will survive. It was once his ambition to head the agency, after all. We certainly cannot leave Pittsburgh with the knowledge that there is a suitcase full of dynamite in the hands of a man who would stop at nothing, not even regicide, to achieve his ends."

* * *

We returned to Clayton, that strange mansion, within the hour. Brownie greeted me at the door with happy barks and licks, followed closely by Childs and the twins, as Roger had affectionately begun referring to our daughter and Helen when in private. Get off her, Brownie!" Childs said, pulling the exuberant pup off of me by the collar. "Oh, sorry!" he fought to control both the dog and unsnare my dress from one of its claws.

"Do not worry," I said, gripping the paw and sliding the caught thread from it. "He is hardly the largest dog that has ever lavished affection on me. Have you ever heard of a Grand Pyrenees?"

"No." His wide eyes looked up at me expectantly.

"I knew one some years ago. He was a great white dog with long fur. When he stood on his hind legs he could put his front paws on Lord Norbert's shoulders."

"Bully!" He looked to Lord Norbert. "Was he really that tall?"

Roger nodded. "He was quite the formidable cur."

"But friendly, quite friendly," I added. "The only thing one had to fear from him was to be knocked flat upon their back and licked to death."

Childs smiled, then his smile widened to a grin. "Did you hear, father's coming home on the evening train?"

"Oh, is he?" I asked, though Roger had confirmed the arrival date earlier in the week.

"Daddy!" Millie shrieked, cause Brownie to duck his head.

Roger scooped Millie up. "Yes, what is it, my dearest?

"We're going to have a dinner party!" Helen nodded in confirmation, both their faces glowing.

"You're not going to have a dinner party," Childs shot the pair a sour glare. "You are going to eat early in the breakfast room, dinner parties are only for grown ups like me."

"Ohhhh..." the girls were crestfallen.

I stroked Millie's hair. "I'll tell you what. Why don't I ask Mr. Ford to prepare us something special for dessert. We can have our very own dinner party." I knelt to Helen who was wiping a tear from her eyes with her fist. "Does that sound good? Maybe some ice cream?"

"Ice cream?" she asked.

"Yes, it will be an ice cream party."

"And Childs can't come!" she said.

"Why would I want to come? Ice cream is for little kids anyway." Childs stomped off in a huff.

"Now Childs, don't stomp about the house," Mrs. Frick scolded, coming down the hallway.

"Momma!" Helen cried, running up to her mother and grasping her mother's dress in her tiny hands. "Child's was mean to me."

"I will have a talk with your brother. Now, why don't you and Emily play with your dolls in the nursery?" Helen nodded her head vigorously and Roger let Millie down to join her as they half ran, half crawled up the stairs.

"How was your walk, Mina? Roger?"

"It was quite pleasant, thank you."

"There was a call for you from a Mr. Evans," the butler reported, finally able to close the door. I glanced to Roger who returned my look solemnly. Would this be it? Had Granger finally lost his battle?

"Ah yes, he's the tailor I consulted with in New York about a new winter wardrobe," I said. "Did he leave a message?"

"Only that you should call him back at your earliest convenience."

"Thank you, Joseph," I said, dismissing the man.

"A new winter wardrobe?" Mrs. Frick asked.

"Yes. I was quite fond of the mink coats I saw on 5th avenue. And, as I am certain you know, a woman cannot simply buy a fur without purchasing the collection it was designed to compliment."

"No," Mrs. Frick nodded. "She certainly cannot."

"The only trouble is he is very fastidious."

"The best tailors always are."

"From buttons to buckles everything must be discussed, which is not really a trouble at all excepting that it does require my time. I do beg you would excuse me."

"Of course." Mrs. Frick nodded.

I hurried up to the telephone room.

* * *

"Has he passed?" I demanded even before Mr. Evans could finish his name.

"No, so far as I've been told," Evans answered, ignoring my rudeness.

"Then might I ask what this call is regarding?"

"There was a message from London, from a woman, Miss Moneypenny. She said they received it from France, that it might be important."

My ears perked up. "France? Did she say what part?"

"Orne, I believe she said."

"What was the message?"

"It was originally in French but she provided a translation. Apparently it read:

Dearest sister,

I am sorry I have been so long in writing you. I have been in hospital this past week but they say I am on the mend. Sorry if I worried you.

Your loving brother."

I dropped the receiver. It rolled across the desk on its tether.

"Does the mean anything to you, Madam Director? Madam Director?"

Russell. It was the last message he sent from Hamburg. Orne. Where was Orne? It didn't matter. I knew from whom this message originated. The demon deacon himself.

I gripped the mouthpiece tightly, almost shouting into it, "Contact Grimsby! Tell him to pull 107 from Hamburg!" It was probably already too late. Surely it was. He would never have sent the message until he knew I would be powerless to stop it. What had I led Russell into?

"What is it?" Roger asked.

"It's 107. Jehozadek has found him." I used Du Beauchene's preferred alias. The Lord is Righteous - Jehozadek. "It must have been when he was in hospital."

Roger stared stonily as I hung up the phone, then suddenly he pulled me into an embrace. There was no romance or physical comfort in it, only the shared desperation of hope that dared not speak its existence, lest the very words extinguish it and leave us only to revel in anguish. Agent 107, Russell Shaw, was dead. I must learn to accept it. Grimsby would inform his grandmother when we had confirmation. When we found his body in whatever condition it had been left. Grimsby would tell her he had served his country admirably. That he was a hero. And so many other fine words that would mean nothing to the woman who had lost her only grandson as she wept. The Shaw line had ended in Hamburg.

"I should tell Grimsby to send Sarah home. That she should take the next week off." I vaguely reached for the phone but Roger only tightened his grasp, pressing me into the hollow below his ribcage.

"Don't. She wouldn't go anyway. Don't order her to."

"As you say." I surrendered to him, burying my face next to the place my bullet had scarred him.

* * *

Mr. Frick arrived some hours later with a Mr. George Westinghouse and Mr. Andrew Mellon in tow. Despite his pleas, Childs found himself exiled to the breakfast room with his sister and Millie where he ruefully ate his supper and two helpings of ice cream. Roger and I did our best to perform our parts, which was not difficult as the other men were too consumed by their questions to Mr. Frick regarding the works of art already at the exposition that there was little notice given to anything else. When the men excused themselves to the breakfast room to play poker I opted to turn in early for the night. Roger asked if there was anything he might do for me. All I could ask was that he remain with the men for the evening and allow me my solitude to mourn.

The following day came bright and cheery. I awoke early to assist Mrs. Frick in her weighing and measuring of the children, a daily task that seemed rather unnecessary but that she obsessed over. Helen had lost an ounce since yesterday, causing her mother to weigh her twice more before fretting that perhaps the child were becoming ill. I suggested that perhaps a turn about the park, in the fresh air, might do the children good. The weather had been far from ideal that morning, but the overcast sky had broken into a sea of azure. We walked behind the girls, Mrs. Frick talking of fashion, which apparently, was moving toward large, puffy sleeves, if her friends from New York were to be believed. I did not begrudge her this topic for it was likely one of the few topics she felt safe enough to discuss and she did so competently, requiring no true input from me for the span of nearly an hour. A requirement I was happy to oblige for my mind was occupied with other things.

Last night I had decided myself that I would not mourn Russell's death until his body were found. Had he not, afterall, survived cholera? Was he not one of my finest agents? Had Du Beauchene found him? Of course. Probably Klugman had located his apartment. But had he succeeded in having him killed? It was pure denial of reality. Klugman was Sanguinem Agnii, and his two associates, Fenstermacher and The Dutch, were no less dangerous than he. But it was what I must do that I might continue the mission. Tomorrow I would attend the Union meeting in Homestead. I was Wilhelmina Mueller. Formerly Mueller. What might my name be? Certainly not Moskowitz, I thought with a smirk. Hauer? Meindel? Perhaps I might stay simply as Wilhelmina. Wilhelmina who would keep neither her husband's name nor reclaim her father's, nor her mother's father. A woman who would not be owned by a man in any regard, not even in name. It was certainly a radical notion, not even Emma Goldman had ventured so far. It would certainly be enough to further the interest of Johann Gruber. I smiled in satisfaction. "No, most of the women I know are not sporting shirt collars and ties when they play golf. But it is the north of England, they may be doing so in the south. It does sound rather unbecoming of a lady, but I suppose I would have to see it for myself," I supplied in answer to Mrs. Frick's question.

* * *

Following church on Sunday I ventured into the permanently dusky skies of Pittsburgh. This morning they were particularly dim, whatever light managed to piece the clouds above was lost in the haze of black soot that hung in the air. The street lights were still lit. The temperature between Point Breeze and the city felt as though it had risen almost ten degrees, as though the soot was acting as a blanket over the city. In the dim light I saw the silhouette of a man leaning against a lamp post, a full sack at his feet, smoking a cigarette. Was there not already enough smoke in the air to breathe? I compared the address of the building beside me with the one on the paper, the man was standing where I would expect Kowalchek's apartment to be. I knew it was not Joe Kowalchek, the form was too slight, certainly not Ralph. Perhaps this was the brother with that ridiculous name, Grant Lincoln. Or perhaps it was someone else entirely. I gripped my umbrella tighter.

Another man approached though the haze, featureless as the first, but shorter, more round of body, with a bald head. I knew him in an instant as Ralph. He greeted the first man, shaking his hand. Then he saw my approach and raised a hand, I could distinguish a wide smile breaking across his doughy jaw. "The woman from the mill. Have you been keeping away from the furnaces?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "Thank you for your assistance the other day."

"Listen to her speak, always so formal," Joe said, coming down the concrete front stairs of the apartment building. He shook my hand, "How do you do today Miss... actually, what should I call you now?"

"Wilhelmina will do fine," I said. "Or Mina, if you prefer."

"Mina is much easier, I'll stick with that. You've already met Ralph. This is my baby brother, Grant." He indicated to the handsome young man who pushed forward from the post so that he was now standing. Grant Kowalcheck was, in some manner of physiognomy, similar to his brother, and yet in no feature were they quite the same. Grant was slighter, and at least three inches shorter. Where Joe's brown hair was highlighted by blond strands, Grant's was ashen, almost as grey as his eyes. He was his brother's mold cast in silver instead of gold.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kowalchek," I extended my hand. He took it, not removing the cigarette to speak.

"You can just call him Grant. He won't mind. Don't be offended, he's not much of a talker with new people. Except when it comes to politics. Don't mention Chris Magee around him or you'll get an earful, stranger or not."

"Not that I can blame him," I said, though I had only heard the name yesterday from Mr. Gilfillan and had little idea what his significance was.

"Sounds like she agrees with you." Joe elbowed his brother in the ribs. Grant's lips curled into a half smile.

We arrived at the Bost Building fifteen minutes early. I remembered with terrible clarity Tom's tale of being forced to salute the flag that even now waved from that red brick edifice. "Here you are, Mrs. Morris," Grant said, handing the sack to a young woman who was holding a baby. "I know it's not a lot, not what you deserve."

"Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Kowalchek. It means so much during this time." She set it on the ground beside her. I could hear the sound of tin cans hitting the wood, the top flopped over, revealing the end of a loaf of bread.

Joe shuttled me over to the woman. "Mrs. Morris, this is a friend of mine, Wilhelmina. Would you be able to take care of here for the meeting?"

"Of course." She smiled politely and motioned me over. "It is always nice to have another woman join the cause."

"Should we find a seat?" I asked, looking out upon the rows of chairs arranged in two columns overlooked by a cheap wooden podium.

"No, leave it for the Union men. We usually congregate in the back. There's Mrs. Foy. Over here, Mrs. Foy." Mrs. Morris waved an older women over. "Mrs. Foy, this is Joe and Grant's friend, Wilhelmina."

"Mina, please," I said, taking Mrs. Foy's hand.

"Pleased to meet you, I'm Nathan and Billy's mum. They're sitting up front, right there." She pointed out two young men sitting in the front row.

"Billy Foy? Do you mean William Foy?" I asked.

"I guess that's what all the papers have been calling him. I daresay he's been glad to see it. I'm so proud of him, my brave boy. Faced the Pinkertons head on, he did. His brother and my husband, Matthew, close behind. And that's Martin Murray next to him, and Harry Hughes. All of them scarred by Pinkerton bullets. The same cruel bullets that murdered our John."

"Oh!" Mrs. Morris cried, clasping the child closer to her. A thrill of electricity shot though me. John Morris. This was the widow of the man Tom had shot. The brutal death of a young father. I doubted she would find consolation in his guilt.

"I am sorry for your loss," I said.

"Thank you. I only with they could've hung the man who... who took him away."

"It's ok, dear, we'll not let his children forget their father was one of the heroes of Homestead," Mrs. Foy said, consolingly. "At least we know. Not like Kate." She indicated to a forlorn looking young woman who was searching the face of every man who walked through the door. Mrs. Foy leaned toward me and whispered, "Her husband was out on a rowboat when the shooting started. They found the boat but never found his body. She's still convinced he made it to shore and that someday she'll walk into a meeting and there he'll be. It's been two months, though. If he was out there we would've found him by now. His body was probably carried away by the current."

I turned my attention from this grim conversation back to the Foy men. Billy Foy turned to shake hands with another man, revealing his face, likely he was somewhat older than myself, but clearly English of feature. I noticed a familiar silver shield glinting from his chest. "Is your son a member of the Salvation Army?"

Mrs. Foy puffed herself up proudly. "He's the leader of the local corps."

"My brother is a member up in Boston, my sister in law is a major there. I've just recently been to visit them."

"I knew there was something I liked about you. In Boston you say? What about you? Are you a member?"

"No, but I do support their efforts where I can."

"Well bless you for that. You're a good Christian woman. I've always hoped my Billy would find a good woman to marry, himself. But he hasn't had an easy time of it. Most women just want a man who will only go to church on Sundays, not make it part of their daily lives. Unless they're Catholics, but I can't allow my boy to marry a Catholic - it wouldn't be right. You wouldn't mind such a man, would you?"

"No."

"You had best give it up, Mrs. Foy. I believe Joe already has plans for her," Mrs. Morris interrupted.

"Oh yes. You did say she came with Joe and Grant, didn't you? Well, perhaps if that doesn't work out." Mrs. Foy said as she was lightly jostled by men shifting over into our area, pushing us toward the corner as their numbers grew. In moments there was scarcely room to stand. I caught the eye of The Poet as he walked in, still in his tattered military coat, and stood by the door. There was a general din from the people all speaking to one another. I felt myself buffeted about as more bodies sought to squeeze into the room.

"Order. Order I say." A round faced man with spectacles of similar shape, a high brow above and chestnut mustache below, banged a gavel on the podium. "I call this meeting of the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel Workers Homestead Lodge No. 11 to order on this the eleventh of September. We'll start with a reading of the minutes from our last meeting." He waved up a man holding a sheet of notes.

"That you, John," the secretary said. The notes were read and opening statements given.

"And now, it is my pleasure to call up a man that needs no introduction, but we'll give him one anyway, Hughey O'Donnel." A cheer erupted from the audience as the tall, black haired man with the large mustache stood and greeted everyone with a brief wave. There was still exhaustion in his eyes, but he smiled as though it were nothing as he shook the bespectacled man's hand and took to the podium.

"Thank you, Burgess McLuckie," he said, smiling. Now, the first order of business. What happened this past Thursday cannot be repeated. Now I know it was mostly kids who did it, but we can't give them an excuse to think us Homesteaders savages. Not with the national guard about. When the paper writes about us it needs to be about how civilized and reasonable we are, not about violence and barbarism. I know they are scabs, and maybe you might say they deserved that treatment, if not worse, but we can't be the ones to mete out that justice." He continued on. Det. Spencer had mentioned the incident when we arrived at the jail. There had been a gathering of Homesteaders near the mill on Thursday that had resulted in a miniature repeat of the Pinkerton gauntlet, this time visited upon the non-union hirelings of the works. Truly in miniature for it was not the adults that had formed the tormenting lines, but children. In the evening older boys and some men joined in. It was nothing so violent as the original, but it had been enough to draw the comparison from the local papers.

O'Donnel continued in his speech, exhorting the strikers to the utmost actions of civility that they not be painted as the villains by the press. "And avoid any and all meetings with known socialists or anarchists." There were some shouts of protest from the crowd. "I know, I know. But I don't care if it's your uncle in Allegheny City, you can't right now."

"It's a free country!" Someone shouted.

"It is. And until Berkman showed up I would not have said anything. But Frick and his associates in the fourth estate are just looking for a reason to tar us with the same brush. Now then, I suppose we must address the matter at hand. Our strike has lasted seventy-two days." A cheer went up from the crowd. "I'm proud of you men. I could not ask for better fellows to stand beside. But there is the matter of money. As you know, I've been all over the eastern seaboard rallying for our cause, and donations are still coming in from all over the United States, but it is coming in slower. Frick has shown no sign of wavering, and there is no assurance Mr. Carnegie is coming back anytime soon.

"And what would he do if he did?" one man cried. "He probably told Frick to do it."

"He probably did, but you know he has no stomach to see this kind of suffering. I believe, were he to return, we might convince him to acquiesce to our demands, just on the principle of the women he left widows and the children, now fatherless."

"You're naive, Hughey," another man shouted. "He's not gonna do a damned thing. Pardon me ladies, but I gotta say it. We're here barely able to make ends meet on strike wages and he's up in Scotland lording it up in some hunting lodge. May God smite him with the cholera."

"The Frick would be in charge," someone else yelled.

The man steepled his hands in prayer. "Forget I said that, Lord." A boisterous laugh rolled over the crowd.

"Look, ye may be able to make ends meet, but me kids are starvin'," a younger Irishman said. He was thin and filthy with a look of desperation in his eyes. "Strike wages aren't enough ta fill five little mouths. No one'll hire us. I been working at the stables, but they don't pay much to shovel cac capaill all day long. I need me job."

"Then go die your wool and join those filthy black sheep," a shout suggested.

"If it were jest a mattera dyin' me wool," he looked down, shamefaced, then brought his eyes up to lock with O'Donnel's, "I woulda by now." Boos filled the air. "I didna want ta, but me kids are cryin' themselves to sleep with hungry bellies every night. But Lovejoy won't let me back in. Says it's on the ordersa Mr. Frick."

There were cries that this traitorous black sheep be expelled from the meeting, even that they lay hands on him and sheer him (whatever that might mean), but O'Donnel quieted them down. "My friends, I know it's easy to condemn this man. But his troubles are real and shared by many among us too afraid to speak up. Eventually, the money will run out. National interest will wain. So we must consider the question, what are we to do?"

"Maybe we should bargain?" a voice said.

"With Frick? Not likely."

An old man stood up. "Now you all know me. You know I wasn't keen to strike in the beginning. I was ok with these new owners. I thought as long as they didn't interfere with how we ran our mill it would be fine. But they can't keep their damn noses out of anything. Everything's about where can they save a few bucks. They ask, 'Do you really need to hire another man down in the pumphouse?' Yeah, of course I do. I wouldn't've said I was going to hire one unless we did. And Lovejoy's always nosing around trying to cut corners here or there. What does he know about making steel? He's not down by the furnaces. These past few months have convinced us of the rightness of our actions. As the good Burgess says, we need to hand together."

"Or most assuredly Mr. Frick will hang us all separately!" another shouted.

"They're the worst kind of corrupt." A middle aged man said, "They jacked up the price of steel to just below the tariff rate. What did the newspaper man call it?"

"Hoggishness!"

"Yeah, hoggishness. And then Frick had the gall to say that extra money was going to the workers. I haven't seen that money. Have you, Rick?" The man, Rick, shook his head. "No, he wants to cut our wages!"

"But we'd still be making more than we were last year with the new upgrades."

"Maybe we would, make something more. I'll give you that. But if we take a paycut this time, what about next time, and the time after that. Look at what they're doing to the scabs. That's what they want to do to us if we'd let them! Make us work twelve hour shifts - more if they can! Seven days a week! Not even off for the sabbath. What kind of life is that? Work and sleep until we finally keel over and die."

"You're being overly dramatic, Cliff. Look at the library Carnegie built the workers in Braddock. It even has a swimming pool and a barber shop."

"That we'd never get to use."

"Yeah, but think of our families. Think of all the good it could do. Our kids could study and go to college. They're who we're working for, right? What about them?"

"What about us?" I shouted from the back. "What about us women? Made as good as widows by the factory whistle. Never to see our men but for when they fall into bed, exhausted. Our children growing up fatherless. What about our town? What will it become when half the population can only do so much as pull themselves out of bed in the morning and collapse back into it in the evening? Our shops will stand empty. Crime will increase. Places of drink and ill-repute will grow in their place as men seek escape from their daily hell and us good women, and I hate to say children, will be forced to work there just to feed our families. What good is a library if they lower pay so much our children can't afford to attend college? If they must prostitute themselves in the streets or sacrifice themselves to the same fate as their fathers? And what of our mothers and fathers who are growing older? How will we afford to care for them when we can scarcely support ourselves. Does Carnegie wish that we should let them die in the streets? The employer should support their workers, not slowly murder them and leave their families destitute. That is how an enlightened society is supposed to function. Not to be slaves to a few rich men." It was nothing new, nothing they had not heard in dozens of different ways over the past few months. Still, it would serve its purpose.

A number of men and women let out shouts of support, as well as The Poet, who shot me a smirk. Joe and Grant turned to look at me, Joe with surprise and Grant with just the faintest trace of a smile. Apparently, my statement met with his approval. The debate continued long into the afternoon until it seemed all the arguments had been made a dozen times over and it was merely about each card carrying member being allowed to restate them in his own accent. Finally, it began to quiet itself down as the scent of coffee brewed by a few of the women wafted through the air. Now plans were made for demonstrations, for gatherings. There was little to discuss on such matters.

As the meeting wound to a close, O'Donnell addressed the crowd, "Well, it has been a productive meeting. Now, I have one final order of business to discuss, and, I admit, I saved it until last because I did not wish it to cast a pall upon or hinder our discussion in any way." He took a deep breath. "I have been to see my lawyer, Mr. Brennan. He is certain he can get the charges dropped, but there is a possibility, I regret to say a strong possibility," he sighed, "that I will be held in jail for some period of time." There was an outcry from the men, but O'Donnell motioned for quiet. "I hate to leave you at such a time as this, though I have faith in John and the rest of you, Homesteaders, to stay strong in my absence when it becomes necessary. Hopefully we will have some time, but that is not a given."

The meeting ended and I was escorted back to the Kowalchek's apartment where I was invited to sup with the brothers and Ralph, but I declined, citing a prior engagement. As I dined with the Fricks that evening in their cavernous dining hall where even the gaping maw of the fire was well filled I could not help but recall the face of the young Irishman whose five children would go hungry tonight.


	18. Chapter 17

"Hmm, our old friend Emma is in the news today," Roger mused as he read his paper while I slipped my earrings in.

"Oh, what for?"

"Apparently she saved the life of a suicidal man. He took strychnine and her intervention led to his survival."

"Another anarchist?"

"Yes, Joseph Oertel."

I sighed, taking out a small personal diary book. "Another name to write down in the book," I said, scratching the name in along with the association and stuffing the tiny book back into my beaded reticule. "It seems like a never ending parade."

"Yes, but it will not be much longer."

"You went out again last night to meet The Poet at the pub? I missed you." I glanced over to my husband.

"Yes. Well, that is to say Jack Lamplighter did."

"Lamplighter. So that is your name now?"

"I won't pretend I spent much time on it."

"Has Mr. Lamplighter learned anything?"

"Not as much as he would like. Many of the new hires at the mill only concern themselves with work and that makeshift pub they've constructed. They could not care less about the situation beyond the fence excepting that they do not with to cross to the other side of it, if such a thing might be helped. Though there was a man, I noticed, who appeared uncommonly attentive."

"I'm intrigued?"

"I noticed when he walked by the furnaces he seemed to pay particular attention to the supports. And he was listening rather closely to the conversation about the militia's plans to leave. He had a nervous energy about him."

"Nervous in what manner?"

"As though he were afraid of being caught."

"Do you think you could crack him?"

"Like an egg."

"Do it then. If someone has put a spy among the scabs we need to know who. That is not the sort of thing done without reason."

"Will you be attending the meeting at the Homestead Rink today?"

"I considered it, but no."

"Why not?"

I flashed him an enigmatic smile then flopped over on the bed, with the back of my hand to my brow in a dramatic pose. I spoke in a voice both breathy and demanding, like that of an overly pampered wife of wealth, "I should like to see the Homestead Works, dearest. Do you think you might request Mr. Frick give us a personal tour?"

"I think that might be arranged, darling."

"Then do so." I waved my hand dismissing him.

"Is there anything else you would like while I am asking that of him?"

I sat up. "Perhaps that we would take the children to the parade today."

"Millie would enjoy that. I don't think she's ever seen a parade. Anything else?"

"No, I believe that will be sufficient. Though, if you could manage it, I will need a new hat. Something with a wide brim, veil, and feathers, and a dress to match. And another dress that would never match." I spoke with a sly smile.

"So you can be assured you won't be recognized?"

"Of course. And so I'm not wearing the same thing when I next meet Mr. Gruber."

"He would not care. The lower classes often wear the same clothes over and again."

"That is precisely the point. He'll like the notion that I dressed up specifically for him."

Roger leaned over and kissed my brow. "My wife the radical."

I smiled warmly. "My husband the scab."

* * *

Mr. Frick not only readily agreed to take us on a factory tour, he stated he would accompany us to the parade, that it would be his pleasure to do so. He could afford to be a little late to the office, afterall, there would be no point in attempting to accomplish any work with all that ruckus going on anyway, he said.

He was quite the sight holding Helen on his shoulders so she could see. Childs tugged at his coat, pointing out this or that thing of interest, but his father soon grew weary of this and scolded him. After that he turned to me. I had no idea there were so many ways to tell an Indian Elephant from an African one. I had always simply assumed the size and the ears were enough, but apparently noses and toes were also distinct. He was a fascinating youth, that Childs, if occasionally wearying with his need to share - but he need not know that from me.

Once the parade had finished we took the children to the Kaufmann's store Mr. Frick had mentioned. Millie marveled at the miniature statue of liberty the was perched upon the ediface of the building, her lamp lit like a beacon through the coal dust fog. We found the necessary dresses, a cheap suit for Roger, and a small toy for each of the children - a new teacup for Helen's tea set, a bunny pincushion for Millie (Roger attempted to dissuade her to choose one of the regular bunny stuffed toys, but she was adamant), and for Childs, a wooden tiger.

The following day we took our tour of the factory. We strolled through the crowds of union workers shouting unpleasant epitaphs to meet Mr. Lovejoy at the gate. Once through, no longer distracted by the faces of the men and women, I was able to properly take in the mill. It was monstrous, belching unending plumes of black smoke from its furnaces. Fire licked the puddling irons as the men turned them.

"No! Not like that!" Frick said, grabbing the giant iron spoon from one of the puddlers. He turned it in his hands back and forth with a dexterity and strength that belied his slight frame, so that the molten iron danced within. "That's how you do it." He pushed the puddling iron back into the man's hands. He turned to Lovejoy. "Where did you find such incompetent workers?" Lovejoy declined to answer but continued walking.

Men barechested but for their overalls (some of which had the straps tied sloppily about their waists) their shoulders and faces coated in grime and soot perched on steel beams near the furnaces where they poured gigantic vats of molten steel down, sending sparks and flames erupting upward and then dying down. Men poured shovelfuls of coke, iron, and limstone into the monstrous steel dragons, their great bellies full of flame. A man with a kerchief wrapped around his nose and mouth stood atop the structure with a skimmer, removing bands of silver, grey, and orange from the top. Men strode across beams overhead no thicker than my wrist as surely as if they were walking down a sidewalk. A man stood at a wall that had openings from which flames shot out. The activity and the smoke and the filth and the men made machines were horrifying, like some mechanical vision of Hell.

Yet a thrill went through me to watch these men, the ropes of muscle and sinew of their shoulders undulating with their movements, pulling, lifting, pushing. The fire and the smoke and sparks dazzled my eyes. The pulsing of sound and energy. There was something that spoke about it as a grand monument to humanity and all its accomplishment. A thing that challenged God's nature with man's order. The fulfillment of the promise of the apple eaten on that last day in the garden. It was glorious and terrible!

"It's fantastic," I breathed.

"I'm glad the lady approves," Mr. Frick said. "I do apologize that you were not able to see it under proper operation," his eyes shifted to focus Lovejoy in their withering glare, "but as you can see, this is the newest model of mill, the open hearth furnace."

"It is quite impressive," Roger said.

"We spared no expense on it," Frick said proudly.

"But I am concerned about this strike," Roger said.

"It's just a few malcontents. It'll be over soon enough, and once we've won it we won't have to worry about strikes any further. It shouldn't be more than a month."

Lovejoy added, "We've already rehired a number of men. Like Mr. Kelly, here." He gestured to a young man, the same Irishman from the meeting yesterday. His blue eyes met mine and dropped to his puddling iron in shame. "He came in this morning. Finally realized that fancy words and assurances won't feed a family."

"That is good to know. But how is the market in America? The tariffs have made investing in English companies unwise, but what is the likelihood of quick return on my investment?"

"First, let me tell you about the railroads," Frick began, regaling us with a grand portrait of the limitless growth of the American steel market. Of towering buildings so tall they would scrape the sky, of bridges spanning every river and gorge, of railroads like veins and capillaries pumping people and supplies across the continental map, causing cities to expand and grow. He spoke as though dazzled by something between fever dream and passion. And at the heart of all this future progress was Carnegie steel, the pride of the nation.

"Over there," Roger whispered as he pointed under his wrist to a man shoveling coke into a furnace. He was a grey haired man of late middle age, whose skin had just begun to sag about the jowls. He had a hunch to his stance and a nervous mein that suggested an oft kicked dog that was waiting expectantly for the next blow at any moment. I nodded. Roger would have no trouble with him.

"Tell me what you find out."

* * *

That very night Roger returned home late, entering through the third story window.

"I told you to use the basement entrance to the laundry room. You'll strain your injury if you scale the side of the building. Not to mention be far more conspicuous."

He grinned and said not a word but spun me around by the waist, falling into the bed beside me. A place from which we did not arise from until noon was almost upon us.

"You were in a fine mood last night," I remarked, turning over in the bed to watch my husband fixing his bowtie.

"How often does one get the chance to save a life?"

"Whose?"

"That Irishman I saw you recognize at the mill, Patrick Kelly."

"There is no doubt with a name like that he is Irish. What did you do?"

"Well, I think he meant to drown himself at the pub but he was talking about how he'd always wanted to pursue a career in the law, if only he'd had the money and a chance, he knew he could."

"How much?"

Roger grinned. "I slipped one hundred dollars and Mr. Gilfillan's card into his pocket. I wrote on the back of the card: For a new suit. Though, I imagine it'll buy that and enough to get by for the next few months."

"Roger! Do you know how much that is?"

"To us, nothing." He shrugged, still grinning. "I'm quite certain I heard the shout when he discovered it at his home. He came running back to the mill, knocked on the foreman's door, tore up his time card and threw it in the man's face. Said he was never gonnae work ina mill agin."

"I wonder how Mr. Gilfillan will take the news," I said with an arched brow.

"I left him a letter, he has the connections I'm certain he'll know of a position for a man willing to work hard."

"Well, I can't say I find it a good idea to do such things, obviously we cannot save them all nor should we attempt to interfere... but thank you. It broke my heart to see him brought so low."

"Yes, but that is not all."

"The man?" I asked. Roger smiled like a sphinx. "Oh Roger, what did he say?"

He sat on the bed and began putting on his stockings. "It seems he has had the misfortune to have gotten in far to deep with a particular anarchist group."

"From Allegheny City?"

"No, he didn't seem to know where they were from. He said they changed locations frequently."

"Did he say what his purpose was at the mill?"

"No. He was far more afraid of them than he was of me, which is disconcerting. He said he didn't want to end up like that girl who was forced to drink acid and would tell me no more, even were I to beat him to death."

I almost cursed but managed to salvage the word at the last moment.

"What is it?"

"Tom said that there were rumors that the Monster of the Mon had murdered a girl by forcing her to drink acid," I answered.

"You think this could be the same?"

"Possible... very possible." I stood up and paced, fingers wrapped around my chin, elbow supported by my other hand, as I had done since girlhood. "Did he say anything else?"

"Yes, that he was surprised they had allowed Berkman to live."

"Perhaps you should have led with that, dearest," I said, hiding my exasperation behind a clearly false smile as a leaned forward so that our noses were almost touching, my hands firmly planted on his knees.

"But then you would not have cared to hear the rest, darling."

"So he saw Berkman."

"No. But he heard they had met and the leader of the group had expressed disapproval of the plan. That it would cause them a great deal of inconvenience if Frick were to die."

"A great deal of inconvenience? That is an odd way to put it."

"Yes, it does imply there is something sinister planned that we have yet to uncover."

I shook my head slowly. "I don't like this at all. Did he say anything else about the meeting with Berkman?"

"Only that he stayed the night and in the morning was escorted away without incident. Our informant was surprised he was not murdered in his sleep for interfering with the plan."

"When was that?"

"The night after he arrived in town, I believe."

"That's very quick." I pondered. "Interfering with the plan, he said. It certainly sounds as though they have no compunction against killing when it suits them, and once Berkman was no longer useful to transport the dynamite, that should have been the end of him. But it wasn't. While he slept they replaced his explosives with the fakes, they may have even tampered with his gun. And were that the case..."

"Then possibly the man in the blue suit was not meant to help Berkman, but was to follow him to be certain he was not able to commit the murder."

"But what would be the possible reason? A distraction? But from what? Or perhaps he wanted to turn the tide against the workers, but that makes even less sense."

"Maybe... They wanted Mr. Frick out of the office for some reason."

My eyes widened with a dawning realization. "You said the man was looking at the bessemer's bases and skulking about the property. Where do you think Mr. Frick keeps the blueprints for his mill?"

"If he is like most men... in his office." Roger had caught on to what I was saying. "Frick is in his office almost every day. He would notice a break-in. But had there been an attempt on his life..."

"No one would think twice were the office still in disarray the following morning. Nokolai. He really did plan it all. He used Berkman entirely. " I began rummaging through my trunk.

"What are you searching for, darling?"

"Lipstick. If Mr. Gruber is friends with this Nikolai, as he claims, then I must make an impression."

* * *

That Thursday I met once more with Tom at Exposition Park. "Wow! You really got tarted up for the meeting."

"How does it look?"

"Wal, given you're a married woman I'm not inclined to say too much, but I will say ya don't look half bad."

"You must follow my lead tonight. I need to spend time with Gruber, alone. But, under no circumstances should you let us leave alone."

"Why do I feel like I shoulda brought a dime novel?"

"It is not my fault if you fail to prepare."

The meeting went well, Gruber greeted us gladly and asked if he might join us. I wondered that he would not have much time before speaking, to which he replied that another man would be leading the meeting. The man was certainly a fine speaker, though he lacked Gruber's casual charisma and tended to fixate more on dates and names. Gruber would lean back to whisper the occasional comment to me, which I responded to by scooting my chair closer and leaning further forward that we were almost shoulder to shoulder by the end. Tom was starring daggers at us.

Following the close of the meeting Gruber and I fell into a long discussion on the practical transition to anarchism that would be required with myself positing that perhaps socialism would be a required first step in the process but Gruber arguing that while that might seem logical it might cause systemic dependence. Tom appeared noticeable bored and by his third beer he drawled in the horrible Philadelphia accent, "Honey, don'tcha think we ought to be getting home?"

What followed these words was quite a tiff which ended with my telling Tom to leave and Gruber victorious. We spoke for another hour until the bartender suggested we might continue the conversation elsewhere so that he could close up. As we were leaving Gruber suggested we might continue at his place. I was about to answer when Tom stepped forward. "I'm sorry, Johann, but I need to take care of this one. Perhaps another time. I am interested to hear more about this Nikolai you mentioned."

"If you would like I could arrange for you to meet him." I might have laughed at this clear attempt to curry my favor in front of my supposed lover.

"Could you, really?" I said, eagerly.

"Oh yes, I am certain he would be very impressed with a woman such as yourself. As am I." He took my hand and kissed it.

"Hey! Lay off her!" Tom said, breaking in between us.

"I didn't mean to offend," Gruber said smoothly.

"You didn't. Mr. Ewing is simply unable to understand that he is my associate at my pleasure, not at my obligation. When do you think I might be able to meet him?"

"Next week, after the meeting. But I don't think he'd let your friend come along."

"That would be fine," I switched to German, "I don't believe he will be accompanying me anyway, after tonight." I leaned in and kissed Gruber on the cheek, leaving a bright crimson imprint upon the stubble of his beard. He grinned like a schoolboy as I turned and began to argue with Tom down the street until we were well out of sight.

"I can't believe that actually worked!" Tom said.

"Give a man a rival and a path to impressing the lady and he will take it every time - particular when he feels he might be the favorite. All you did was allow me to appear desirable enough to be worth waiting on."

"I hate to leave you alone, though."

"I understand, but there is no need to worry. I am quite capable of taking care of myself."

* * *

There was still much to be done before the next meeting. I went to visit Mr. Gilfillan that Friday. He was glad to see me and asked that I might return that Monday, for there was someone he should like us to speak with. On my way back I stopped by the mill in the hopes of catching Joe Kowalchek about his lunch break to hear the gossip regarding the strike, but it was only his brother, Grant, whom I was met with. It seemed Joe, Ralph, and a number of the other men had gone over to market street to the Oyster House for lunch. Apparently, meat was forbidden for Catholics on Fridays, but seafood was acceptable. Grant, not being partial to seafood, was having a cheese sandwich by himself.

"There's going to be a meeting at the rink tomorrow," he said, after swallowing a particularly large bite. "At 2 o'clock."

"So soon?"

"Yeah, they arrested George Champineaux this morning. There wasn't enough money left in the Union account to make his bail. They'll be coming for O'Donnell, Ross, and McLuckie now."

"Are you certain?"

"It was only a matter of time. Once they knew there was no more money, that was when they'd strike at the Advisory Board. Because if they can't make bail they'll be forced to wait in prison where their ability to lead the strike will be... well it won't exist is the short of it."

I stamped my boot. "Then we need to do something!"

"We're having the meeting."

"Something more. Hold a collection."

"Nobody has the money. Most of them would just being giving back the union money."

"Rob a bank."

He burst out in a laugh. "That's the first laugh I've had all day."

"Well, perhaps if we could bail Mr. Champineaux out of jail-"

"I see where you're going and it's a nice thought but it's probably already too late. The warrants were probably drawn up the moment he failed to post bail."

"That's not justice! It's not right! To plot to deny a man his freedom by draining his coffers and then charging him when he is bankrupt is sinister! It's... it's downright unamerican."

"Haven't you ever heard of America's Golden Rule? He who has the gold makes the rules."

"It's not that I don't know it. It just disgusts me to see it. Carnegie always pretends he is a man of the people-"

"Yeah, but Frick pretends no such thing. He's rich and he wants to be richer. To buy more fancy paintings for his house. He doesn't care if every man, woman, and child in Homestead starves so long as he can pinch a few more pennies a bit tighter. Don't get me wrong, Carnegie's no different. He's probably worse, in the end, because he makes people believe they might have hope. It's almost better not to."

I collapsed next to him on the stoop, my face cradled in my hands. "What would be better is if their ilk were done away with altogether and the people who actually knew how the factory should be run allowed to do so," I mumbled.

Grant smirked. "And how would you propose doing away with them?"

"Besides the most obvious way?"

He laughed again. "You know, I thought it in the meeting and I'm thinking it again now, but I like you. You aren't like the normal women Joe brings around. You can actually think."

"Shhh! Don't let anyone hear you! They put me in a museum! The Thinking Woman."

"P.T. Barnum would be thrilled. That is, if he were still alive."

"Good thing he isn't. I've been the property of men long enough, I should not want to enter into another round of servitude - although, at least I would be paid."

Grant stood and made in manner like a carnival barker. "Step right up and see The Amazing Thinking Woman! Watch as she adds two numbers in her head. Marvel as she speaks her mind. Gaze in awe as she reads Kant."

"Kant!"

"Descartes?"

"Pedestrian."

He grinned mischievously. "Marx?"

"And Engels," I said.

He nodded as though I had answered correctly. "I had a suspicion you might. Did you hear Alexander Berkman's sentencing is on Monday."

"Yes, and it is a charity to all that it is so."

"What do you think of him?"

"Do you ask my honest opinion?"

"Why would I want anything else?"

I took a deep breath. "He is an arrogant blowhard obsessed with his view that he is somehow superior to all around him while, at the same time, showing himself to be far inferior. He has misrepresented his cause in court so greatly that it is a humiliation to all those who might profess anarchism to read the paper on any given day during his trial. He is an incompetent who could only have done more to hurt the cause of the Homesteaders by actually killing Frick."

"You don't think Frick deserves to die?"

"What sort of question is that?"

"Just trying to figure you out."

"Well, in that case, no, I don't think he deserves to die. At least, not so easily that he could become a martyr for the anti-Union cause."

"You're a radical." he said, bluntly.

"I won't deny my beliefs."

"I think if Joe knew that he'd have never brought you around." I turned to leave. "But I'm glad he did. We need more radicals who can think of more than just making themselves famous. Who don't care about seeing their names in the papers. I'm sure you've noticed, but things are going downhill for labor in this country. It seems like everybody's striking and they're only getting better at beating us. We need a way to make the factory workers listen."

"It seems I'm not the only radical in this conversation."

He winked, knowingly. "Would you like to go down to the rink with me tomorrow?"

"Of course."

* * *

Another anarchist in the notebook. But not one I had expected. Roger reported that Granger's condition was gradually improving though, it had merely improved from knocking upon death's door to simply grave. There was still no word on the recovery of Russell Shaw's body. I was beginning to wonder if there really was one to recover. A fool's hope, but easy to grasp onto in times such as these. With the end of the week at hand we went walking with Mr. Frick and his family about the park and into the ravine, walking to the clearing near the stick teepee. I heard, in the distance, the rustling of leaves as if disturbed by something large and was shocked to watch as a man in a gardener's kit followed by two young women dressed as maids appear from the woods and mount the cliff as easily as if it had been flat land.

"They aren't supposed to cut through the woods like that. I'll have to inform their employer," Frick said.

"Might we go see?" We walked to the place they had passed, expecting that perhaps the path had been obscured. And a path I did find, if one might be so generous to call it such, for it was scarcely an inch wide, if that. "They must be part goat!" I cried. "This path is barely wide enough for a toe!"

"You might think that," Mr. Frick smiled, "it's something about being raised in this region. They walk straight up hills so steep and paths so narrow a normal person would be forgiven for thinking them insurmountable." He easily walked halfway up the hillside as if to illustrate the point. "But to one from the region, it is rather simple. In my youth, I had no fear of walking up the steepest of mountains. I would stride up them as if they were nothing. And today I still remain unintimidated, no matter how formidable the slope.." He lightly stepped back down, his point proved. "Let us continue our walk."

The following day I met Grant and we walked to the rally together. Or, it would be better to say we walked near it, for a throng of easily two thousand were gathered there. A hush fell as O'Donnell took the makeshift stage. "My brothers and sister of labor," he declared, "I am sorry I must be the one to tell you this, but I do not wish for there to be any rumors. I received my subpoena this morning." He held up the document for all to see. Shouts of anger and moans of anguish met with this announcement. "We knew this day was coming. Hugh Ross has been served as well, and Mrs. McLuckie reports she will have unpleasant news for our Burgess on his return from West Virginia. I am to report to the courthouse on Monday for my hearing. I stand accused of the murders of Silas Wain, T.J. Connors, and J.W. Klein, Aggravated Riot, and Conspiracy for my involvement with the Advisory Board. But what about the murders of John Morris! And Peter Fares! What about the murder of Henry Striegel! What about George Rutter? Is there no justice for a man who served his country in the war? What about Joseph Sotak who died because he stopped to save his friend? Do none of these men deserve justice? Who would Silas say killed him? Us, who were his friends? Or the Pinkertons?"

Shouts of "The Pinkertons!" and jeers followed this.

"If any wishes to attend, I will not discourage you. But only be careful to conduct yourselves in the most honorable of manners. They are looking for us to appear as wild barbarians, let us not give them cause."

After he finished the next speaker, a rather long winded man who imagined himself a firebrand took the stage, speaking for far too long, to the irritation of the crowd. Grant tapped my elbow to gain my attention, "Come on, let's go," he said.

We spoke a good deal about the cause of anarchism until finally he asked, "Would you like to assist in the cause?"

"How might I?"

"I have a friend. I am certain he would have a use for you. If you would allow me to mention your name to him."

"Yes, of course," I said eagerly. "Anything I might do. I cannot bear to stand idly by any longer watching men make all the decisions for me. What is your friend's name?"

"I cannot tell you that yet. Only if he approves the meeting."

"When will I know?"

"I will have an answer tomorrow."

"Should I meet you somewhere?"

"The same place as you did last Sunday. If it is a yes, we will progress from there."

* * *

"Carnegie is hunting grouse while here I am trying to clean up his mess!" Frick said as he read the Sunday paper, his cup of coffee banging hard against the table.

"Relax darling, I am sure it is only to show our investors that he remains untroubled by the strike."

"Well maybe he damn well should be troubled by the strike! We're losing thousands by the day!"

"Henry! Not in front of the children."

"I'm sorry, dear. I'll finish my coffee in my office. I need some time alone to think about what I should do."

After services Roger and I made our excuses to visit the city, ostensibly to visit the Exposition which Mr. Frick could not believe we had not yet seen and Mrs. Frick insisted that we should go immediately. Roger and I parted ways at the station, he going to the Exposition (for he was quite interested), and I to meet the Kowalchek brothers. At the meeting the outrage that was the summons for O'Donnell, Ross, and McLuckie was at the forefront everybody's mind. There was an attempt to collect for bail money, but all knew this was an exercise in futility. They were just as perturbed by Carnegie's actions as Frick had been, though for rather different reasons.

"Here we are starving and he's hunting more grouse than he can eat," one man grumbled.

After the meeting Grant made our excuses saying he wished to walk me home, a prospect that appeared to delight Joe. A prospect that invited my consternation. The ink was not even dry on my divorce (let alone existent) and already he was trying to match me with his brother. Did he expect that a divorced woman was in such dire circumstances as to accept the first man who might be persuaded to take her? Still, I checked my temper.

"Sorry about my brother," Grant said. "He is eager to see me wed. He is in love and he thinks the rest of the world should be as well." He handed me an envelope. "I've already read it."

I opened it to read in fine handwritten letters: _I have heard a good deal about this Miss Wilhelmina. That two of my lieutenants would recommend her is quite impressive. I am eager to meet her. N._ Two. He must mean Gruber as well. Poor Mr. Gruber would be so disappointed. The English was quite good for a Russian. He must be well studied, perhaps arrogant if he were flaunting his abilities.

"When?" I asked.

"Now. You'll have to forgive me but I must blindfold you. If he were to decide not to pursue the acquaintance, as he would say, he would prefer that you not know where he resides."

"I understand."

I followed Grant down to a back alley where a narrow, seedy coachman in undertaker garb waited with a hearse, the black curtains drawn to obscure viewing. His black horse pawed at the ground. "People tend to be not too curious as to what may occur behind the windows of a hearse," Grant said. He held out his hand to guide me up the stairs, but I refused it. He smirked. He followed behind, taking a seat beside me on a small bench inside. "Now I must blindfold you." He took a piece of thick black wool from his pocket and tied it around my head that I could no longer see anything but pitch, though I felt the movement of air from his hand motioning in front of my face. "Ok," he said. "Let's go." He knocked twice on the roof of the hearse and off we went.

The journey was long, despite our fast pace. I could feel the hearse driving itself in large circles and doubling back on itself that soon it became impossible to know where, precisely we were. It was almost an hour before we stopped. "We're changing carriages now. You'll have to take my hand."

Completely blind, I followed his lead from the hearse into a smaller coach. I could hear the hoofbeats of one pony as we rode along, the warmth of the late afternoon sun occasionally kissing my face through shadow as the smell of grass and late summer blooms perfumed the air. Wherever we might be, we were no longer in the city.

"I noticed there were fewer of the Slavic and Hungarian workers," I said.

"Probably gone back to the mills. The traitors. They'll come to understand, hopefully not too late, the cost of sacrificing their fellow man for a full belly."

I nodded in affirmation. It was only he and I now. Unguarded. He was no longer subjecting his opinions to censure. I could wish this was merely the regret of one who realizes the error of their ways, but were this group as I anticipated... that was not likely the circumstance. "Will it be much further?" I asked.

"No, we're almost there."

True to his word it was not even ten minutes before we arrived. My blindfold remained on as I was led into a room of cool dampness. I could smell the smoke and feel the warmth of a fire in front of me. Grant removed the blindfold and I beheld a small, dark room made entirely of wood, not entirely unlike a hunting cabin, yet rougher. The only light came from the orange glow of a small fire crackling in a stone fireplace. Before that fireplace sat a man in a large chair. Grant lit a lantern. I could now see the room properly, though there was little to see but some small furnishings.

"I am glad you were able to come at such short notice," the man said, placing a book on the side table and folding up a pair of spectacles to rest on top of it. He was intentionally making me wait for him, to establish his position. He might have simply met me at the door. "I've heard a great deal about you. Mr. Gruber tells me you might very well be the next Emma Goldman."

"You flatter me."

"I don't. That would be his opinion. Mine has yet to be determined." He stood. His figure was neither slight nor solid. It held a liquid quality to it, a darkness that spoke not of danger but enticement. As though a swarthy complexion might be conveyed in a stance. There was a strange familiarity in it. Something that spoke of the Frenchman, but felt older than him somehow. Another man slid in from the dark of a staircase, tall, thin, wearing a bowler hat and a blue suit. Agent Wilbur Evans. Had he infiltrated this far in? I pretended not to notice him as he lurked in the shadow. "But, if you are half of what he and Grant say you are, then I believe you will prove quite useful to our cause." He turned.

I knew him in an instant. The handsome face, the brown eyes intense with purpose, beneath the left of which, across the shelf of the cheekbone ran the scar the bullet from my derringer had marked him with. Those very brown eyes widened with recognition.

"Mina!" Nicholas Martin said.


	19. Chapter 18

"You know her?" Grant asked, perplexed.

"In a manner of speaking. If you might excuse us, I would like to speak with the lady alone. Gruber, you as well. Reverend." He nodded his head. I turned to see Johann Gruber sitting in a chair obscured by the door, as well as another man who was holding a pistol. Wilbur Evans walked up to Nicholas and whispered something in his ear while glaring at me. "Interesting. Thank you, detective. You may go." He turned his attention to me. "I heard from Darby you married Lord Roger Norbert."

"Yes, three years ago. I was sorry to hear about your brother."

"Thank you. I wish I could say it had been a surprise, but the only surprising part about it was that it had not occurred sooner. I imagine my father blames me for it."

"I could not say."

"You didn't attend?"

"It did not seem my place."

"I do understand. If I felt I could have, I certainly would have made the journey despite the risk. Where is he?"

"There is a church outside of Worthing, my husband suggested they might be willing to make an exception. They have a small congregation, so they are more amenable to turning a blind eye for a significant donation."

"That was good of him."

"You may dispense with the formalities. We both know you have no taste for it and Evans has gone into the room above and shut the door."

"You're not even going to pretend not to know him?"

"And what purpose would that serve? You have already made certain to inform me that you do."

He sighed. "Very perceptive. Well, that does make this easier. Your weapon, please?" I surrendered my pistol to him. "And the derringer?"

"I'm not carrying a derringer."

"Yes, you are. The next lie you speak will be your last." I lifted my skirt and removed the diminutive weapon from my boot. He took it as well. "I'll let you keep your umbrella handle, it will require more time for you to remove than I'll need." He circled me, appraising. "So my dear fiance has become a spy?"

"Former fiance. And you have become the Monster of the Mon?"

He smirked. "Just a myth. What they credit to our organization is generally false."

"Generally false. In what regards is it true?"

"Why do you think I would answer such a question?"

"Because you are an honest man, or have you dispensed with such claims?"

"I will own they have become more difficult to maintain. But I will never lie to you."

"Provided I ask the correct question."

"Well, you certainly cannot expect me to simply give all my secrets away. You were once a woman who appreciated that."

"Did you force a young woman to drink acid?" I asked, leveling the charge repeated by both the millworker and Tom Ewing.

"No, I certainly did not. Though I did read about the incident in the paper. Such a pity. Horrible way to pass."

"Have you committed any bombings?"

"There was an incident with a flatcar that did not go as planned, though, to be fair, that was Mr. Willock. You may question me all evening if you wish, but I don't believe that is what you came here to do."

"You are wrong, Mr. Martin, that is precisely what I came here to do." I said.

At this he slid between myself and the door, placing his body less than a foot from mine and leaned in. "Don't lie Miss Moore. You impressed my men with your rhetoric and the sincerity of your conviction, Gruber has not ceased singing your praises since you met. When Mr. Kowalcheck echoed some of his less amourous sentiments I had to admit I was curious."

"I learned from the best."

He chuckled. "They did say your sentiments bore a remarkable familiarity. I knew you were an uncommon woman, but I would have never guessed you were quite so remarkable in that regard. Evans said there was another with you, a James Bond. A name I was quite surprised to hear."

"I imagine you would be."

"Am I to assume that is Lord Norbert, then?"

"It will do me no good to hide it. You know his face."

"A spy as well. I will admit I would never have suspected he had it in him until he knocked me unconscious."

"He is a man of many surprises."

Nicholas surveyed me from tip to top. "Clearly. And you are residing at Clayton manor, with the Frick family?"

"It is as you say."

"At least you are better attended than your clothing would suggest."

I was growing weary of this. "Do you intend to murder me, here?"

"Not if I can help it. I should prefer not to do so at all. I assume you would agree."

"That would depend on what you were asking."

"Only that you listen to me."

"Is that all?"

"Perhaps a walk."

"A walk? Are you not afraid I might shoot you?"

"You're not fool enough to do so, not with Evans knowing where you live. Besides, you would not have made such efforts to join my organization simply for a child who drank acid. You suspect I am involved in something larger and if you were to shoot me, you might never find out what I had been planning until it were executed."

"Well, are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Planning something?"

"My princess, I am always planning something. Though at the moment, I am planning nothing more than a walk with a dear dear friend."

"Oh, will someone be accompanying us?"

He smiled, tapping the scar on his left cheek. "Mina Moore, always with the quick wit."

"You tried to strangle me with a curtain cord, I believe you have lost the right to call me friend."

"Perhaps I might regain it, in time. If you will walk with me, there is something I wish to show you."

"If you insist. I am at your mercy."

"Yes you are, but I will not exploit your vulnerability." He picked up the piece of black wool Grant had dropped. "Turn around."

"No."

"I can't very well have you knowing our location. You know what I would have to do to protect my men. And, as I have stated before, I would prefer not to harm you."

My shoulders slackened. I really had no choice in the matter. "Fine." I turned around, placing a hand on the side of my neck. Were he to try to slide the wool over my throat, instead of my eyes, it would be an easy matter to tear it off.

"You truly don't trust me, do you?"

"Certainly not behind me with anything that might be used for strangulation."

"I suppose I will have to work to regain that as well." He carefully tied the blindfold over my eyes. I felt the heat and smoke from a candle near my face but saw none of the light. Satisfied, Nicholas turned me about with his hands and guided me toward the door. "Now, Miss Moore, let us be off."

* * *

We drove for almost half an hour in the coach before it halted and I felt Nicholas's fingers whispering through my hair as they undid my blindfold. Blinking in the late evening sunlight at my surroundings, I could tell we had stopped at the edge of a cemetery. "Your choice of venue hardly inspires confidence," I said, doing my level best to hide my growing fear.

By all rights I should be dead. I should have been killed in that ramshackle house. But I was not, though only at the pleasure of my captor. That I was not bound conveyed a confidence that he did not fear me nor my escape. Likely he had a guard on us, though a quick scan of my surroundings did not reveal one, still, it was easy to hide a gunman in a cemetery. But then, it was just as easy to hide a body. How many times had someone, not watching where they were walking, fallen into a grave and hit their head against a rock? No one would question it.

"Let us hurry," Nicholas said, "We have a ways to walk and I'd like to be through Hazelwood by nightfall."

I jogged to catch up with his stride. If I fell too far behind I was likely to find myself at the end of a gun. "Is it dangerous?"

"Not particularly, I simply don't like being in cemeteries after nightfall."

"I never took you for the superstitious type."

He smirked. "Some affectations from childhood never truly subside."

"So what has Evans told you of the Pinkerton movements in the area?"

"Enough."

"All of it then?"

"If you are asking whether I know who your friends are, I am fully aware."

"Exactly the answer I would expect from you."

"Is that right?"

"Yes. I know you would know the one, for I have seen him in direct contact with Evans. But the other... I imagine you only know him by his code name."

He stopped short and held out his arm as I passed it, turning me around by the waist using my own motion against me so that I was wrapped within his arm. His deep brown eyes met mine, their expression that of the seducer. "When did you become so clever?"

I pushed away against his chest. "Sometime after I rid myself of you."

"You are cruel."

"It is an accusation I might return. Now I ask, did you intend to have me shot when I arrived? Before you knew who I was?"

"Yes. Of course I did. Quite a silly question to ask, really. Agent M of the British Secret Service and James Bond - given my prior associations with that particular institution I don't see what option I had. When you would not leave of your own accord, you forced my hand."

"But the fact I was M altered that?"

"We shall see." We walked on the the crest of the hill. "Look there." He pointed over the edge. The view nearly stole my breath away. What had seemed another hill now revealed itself to be a great mountain overlooking the river, and beyond that was the town of Homestead. And further on, the great mill glowed orange against the darkening sky. He wrapped his fingers around my shoulders. "Steel is the molten lifeblood pumping through capitalism's black heart. The strike doesn't hurt Carnegie, he doesn't feel any true pain from it. While all his employees, Union and scab alike, feel nothing but pain. Where is the justice in that? Where is the justice in Frick ordering armed Pinkertons to take the mill by force and yet he only had to pay bail, while the strikers are in jail facing murder charges?"

"Did you assist on the attempt on Frick's life?"

"Make no mistake, Miss Moore, had it been me he would be dead."

"But it was Berkman."

"An idiot."

"Yet you knew his plans and let him go."

"I did try to dissuade him. It was up to him to listen."

"You knew he wouldn't."

"It was likely he wouldn't, yes."

"You counted on it."

"Now why would you say that?"

"I want to know what your man stole from his office."

"What man?"

"The tall man in the blue suit, whom I believe to have been Mr. Evans."

"He never stole anything."

"Borrowed then."

He leaned forward so that his mouth was next to my ear. I could feel the warmth of his breath upon it. My body stiffened. "Such a clever girl. Really a shame I let you go."

"You didn't let me go. I escaped you. Thrice."

"Look down Miss Moore, look down at the of Homestead. I want to to envision in your mind another city sitting on the edge of a river, not more than seventy miles East of here with me. In this city are workers just like the ones down there. Now someway up the river, in the foothills of the Allegheny mountains there is a dam that creates a lake that the locals enjoy for fishing. Now imagine Frick, Carnegie, Lovejoy and their friends have decided to set up a sportsmen's club. But, of course, for men such as these, simply building beside the river and riding up on horseback is too crude. Frick must have a road wide enough for his carriage. So they lower the height of the dam. They must not lose any fish, so they screen the spillway but often neglect to clean it, so it becomes choked with debris. And the system of relief pipes are never replaced, because why should such things matter to men like these. When the dam springs a leak they plug it with dirt and straw because they simply can't be bother to pay for repairs. They bring up slag to increase the amount of land by the lake to be built upon, shrinking its size, its capacity. Can you see it?"

I nodded.

"Then, one day the rains come. Not normal rains, but the torrents of late May. It's the middle of the afternoon. And the dam that they have so abused and neglected finally gives way. And the waters rush forth in a great wave. And that great wave takes the town of Mineral Point with it on its path of destruction, leaving nothing of the thirty families who lived there. No houses, not shops, not even the very soil was left, only the bedrock. East Conemaugh comes next, then the Cambria Iron Works in the town of Woodvale. Do you know what happens when water meets molten iron?" He asked.

I had to admit I did not.

"It explodes. More explosions occurred when it hit the boilers of the wire works. Entire houses, barbed wire, metal, iron, steel, all devoured by the flood, all part of the moving mountain as it made its way down the river. The first warning the people of Johnstown had was the black smoke from the exploding boilers. No one above thought to warn them that the dam had failed. It was almost an hour after it failed that the mountain of water arrived in Johnstown. Fifty seven minutes. In fifty seven minutes they could've evacuated. They could have gone for higher ground. But no one said a word."

The Johnstown flood Mr. Gilfillan had mentioned.

"Sixty feet of water struck Johnstown just before supper. The debris dammed up the stone railroad bridge, surged back into town, caught fire, burning and choking alive the people who had been swept away, crushing their bodies in the debris. Eighty people died at the bridge alone. It took three months to get them all out. Ninety nine entire families were wiped out in fifty seven minutes. Officially they say 2,209 people died. But no one in Johnstown will tell you that's the right number. And they will all tell you who's responsible. There's not a man, woman, or child of Johnstown who doesn't lay the blame squarely at the feet of Frick and Carnegie. An inquiry was made, but when the time came to prove once and for all who was responsible for the great loss of life, it became clear there would be no justice. Mammon had won the day. And God wept for the lost souls of the flood." Rage flashed in his eyes, but was quickly cooled. He turned to me. "We aren't yet finished with our walk."

He led me down the hill to the bridge he called the P'micky, which crossed the river almost into the works. "You see how the houses are dark though it is not even fully night? The strikers are trying to save money. To you and I it would merely be pennies, but to them, it is bread, it is survival." He knocked on one of the doors, an older lady with snow white hair hanging loose to her shoulders answered. "Mrs. Carol, how are you today?"

"As fine as I can be."

He produced a small sack. "Might you be able to sneak us into the mill, I need to show this woman what Henry Clay Frick has done."

"You mean Henry Clay F-" Swiping the sack, she cursed so vehemently as to leave me stunned. "Yeah, I'll get you in. Just give me a few minutes."

"What is in the sack?" I whispered.

"Coffee. The guards believe she makes them each a cup from a good heart, but it distracts them long enough that we can sneak in. Of course, she keeps whatever is left as payment." He said with a half smile. "Before you start planning how you might interrogate her, I assure you she knows nothing more about our activities than her role."

It seemed he had already considered the possibility of discovery and had planned accordingly that no one person beyond his inner circle would know too much. "What about leaving?" I asked.

"Do you honestly think they pay attention to who leaves the mill? But if it makes you feel any better, we'll take Lord Norbert's way."

My heart froze within me. Had we been so closely observed? I was relieved Roger was staying in tonight, discussing long term strategies for future growth of the steel industry, a discussion which was expected to last well into the night, but also would have allowed for easy communication were I to find myself in trouble.

"Well don't you fine young men look tired from a hard night's work. Here, I brought you a nice cuppa coffee ta' warm ya up. These late September nights get so chilly." She rubbed her arms miming being cold as she said this.

"Thank you, Mother Carol, we don't know how we'd get by without you," the man, no older than thirty with a reddish mustache said, taking a long sip. "You're a saint."

"Let's go," Nicholas said.

"She's a real lifesaver," the other, a man barely twenty, agreed.

We slipped in behind him as Mrs. Carol said, "It ain't nothin' you boys don't deserve for keeping our mill safe from vandals."

"Welcome to Hell," Nicholas said, gesturing to the internal workings. The dark the fires of the mills and the black of the metal made one feel they were truly stepping into the inferno. Where men shoveled black coal to feed the flames that roared within. I stared in wonder at the men walking the metal rails above my head. Though I had only seen it a few days ago it seemed different. It pulsed with a life, the percussion from the roar of the flames coursed through me. "Frick supplies the coke, he owns the mines and the furnaces. Last year, in January, one hundred and nine souls, men and boys, were killed in one of his mines following an explosion. It seemed the Fireboss had not been doing the inspections as he was required to do. Frick was generous enough to say he would pay for their coffins. Then he buried them in a ditch."

"You can hardly blame that on Mr. Frick. It was the Fireboss who neglected his duty."

"Likely because such tests take time and cost money because the men aren't working that shaft and if there is one thing Frick cannot pardon, it is the loss of money. Of course, like so many of his sins he covered it up. He cared nothing for them, nor for the nine striking laborers whom his deputies shot to death in April of that same year in the Morewood Massacre. He threw most of their bodies in the same ditch as the miners."

"I hadn't heard of that."

"Did you honestly think Homestead was the first time Frick had murdered his own workers for the capital crime of wanting a life that was just a little bit better? There is a river of blood that flows from Henry Clay Frick's office wide enough and long enough to rival the Ohio. And Andrew Carnegie is not a far cry better, building his libraries on the bones of his workers." His eyes met mine. "Did I attempt to kill Frick? No. But I'll not own I would shed a tear for his passing if that idiot had managed to murder him. As though death means anything to men such as he. And men such as he should suffer for the wrongs they have done. And that is what I want. I want to see him suffer." I recognized the cruel glint in his eye and involuntarily stepped back. "Oh my dear princess, you have nothing to fear from me. The true villain of this tale is not I, it is the man who sits across the table from you."

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I saw a familiar face, the man whom Roger had interrogated the other day. He noticed Nicholas and scurried away as quickly as he could. "Hmmm," Nicholas muttered. "It appears I may have some business to attend to. Well, Miss Moore, have I convinced you?"

"Convinced me of what?"

"What did Haymarket do beyond result in death and fear? What did Ravachol bring about but is own demise? What did the death of the Tsar bring to Russia but another Tsar?"

"You would be the expert on that."

"I will own it if people might hear me more clearly for saying it. People like Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman are the problem, they are fools who play checkers while the political bosses and businessmen play chess. Attentat is the sacrifice of a few pawns to gain a queen. The moment that knife entered Frick's body the Union lost."

"You believe they will lose?"

"I believe they already have lost. Public sentiment is against them. It has been since the attack. They are being painted with the same brush as the anarchists. And frankly, princess, Frick has the money to outlast them."

"What will become of them?"

"Most of them will be hired back on as laborers working grueling hours for lower wages, fully humiliated. The bigger names like O'Donnell and McLuckie, of course, will never work in the business again, neither here nor anywhere else. They'll be fortunate if they don't end up digging ditches in Mexico." I couldn't help but feel the prickle of tears coming to my eyes at the thought of those men at the meeting so cowed, so thoroughly subjugated. "It gratifies my heart to see a woman of your rank and fortune can still feel something for these men. It reminds me of what I first saw in you. That hunger for justice for those who labor. That love for your fellow man that detests inequality and abuse."

"I was a different woman then."

He placed a finger under my chin, tilting it up that my eyes met his brown ones. "But those things have not changed, have they? Do you know what Mr. Evans took from Frick's office? Blueprints for the mill. They have since been returned but I have retained a copy."

"Why the interest in blueprints?"

Nicholas indicated with his chin toward a man who was trying to manage a puddling iron one-handed, against his hip, while the other was bound in a sling. "Injuries are up one hundred fold. Scabs are traitors to their fellow men, they make it possible for Frick to win this war with their labor. While I can sympathize with the type of need that would drive a man to such a betrayal of his fellows and his children, I cannot condone it. But still it grieves me to see the same negligence that existed in the mine to be repeated here. Lovejoy and his ilk must be watched. I expect it won't be too long before there will be another mass grave in Homestead."

"So you believe it is up to you to watch them?"

"Someone must look out for the interests of the Homesteaders. Certainly you aren't." This last sentence he said so pointedly, with such accusation, that I could not help but feel my soul convicted. I was only there to make certain this captain of industry was safe. For nothing less would Granger have sent me. There was no care as to whether Carnegie had conspired to murder his workers, only as to whether he had conspired to murder Frick.

"But perhaps I might be able to," I said.

"You?" he snorted derisively. "A dog of the British government?"

"Perhaps a dog, but in a position to help. If you have anything to implicate Mr. Frick, and, in that way, Mr. Carnegie, then you should show me now."

"I can show you something in three days."

"Why three?"

"I need to know if I can trust you."

"And how will three days time tell you that?"

"I could say a week if you would prefer."

"Three days will be sufficient. Where will I meet you?"

"In the ravine beyond their park, in the clearing."

"When?"

"Early in the morning, just before sunrise."

"I suppose you will tell me to come unarmed?"

"You wouldn't even if I required it. Besides, I want you to know that you can trust me." He lightly brushed his finger across his scar, in a motion that appeared to be unconscious. "At least, insofar as my intentions toward Mr. Frick are concerned. I am not foolish enough to believe Rome can be rebuilt in a day." I turned away from him. He took me by the arms, his eyes imploring. "Mina, we have the same goal in this."

"I will meet you," I said. He released me. "But only you. None of your men are to come along. If I even get the scent of one, the detente is off. And you must come unarmed."

He smirked and made a low bow. "I would never dream of bringing a weapon. It is bad form to appear armed in front of royalty, princess. Whatever you ask I will do. As I said, I want you to trust me. I only ask three things in return."

"And what are those?"

"Bring a loaf of bread."

"Why?"

"My group collects food for some of the families of those most affected by the strike." I recalled the sack of food Grant had given to Mrs. Morris. "Since you are living with their devil, it would be nice if you might contribute something to their cause."

I nodded. "Easily accomplished. What else?"

"Don't bring that German mutt that's been following you around."

"He's from Wyoming."

"If you say so."

"Easily done. And the third thing?"

"Don't tell Lord Norbert who I really am. You know if he were to find out he would not rest until I was dead or disappeared and then Frick would escape any semblance of justice for what he has done to the strikers."

He spoke the truth. Roger would never let him live, not even to help bring down Frick. But the idea settled poorly in me. I was not in the habit of keeping secrets from my husband and I certainly didn't want my first to be that I had found Nicholas Martin. I set my jaw. "Agreed."


	20. Chapter 19

"Did you meet with Nikolai?" Roger asked as I set down my gloves and bag on the table beside the door.

"Yes," I said, removing my boots.

"How did it go?"

I lay down in the bed, choosing my words carefully. "He will speak to me."

"You really are remarkable." He sat upon the bed next to me and laid a hand on my stomach. I brushed it aside. "Would you prefer me to spend the night in my own room?"

I turned onto my side, facing away from him. "Yes, if you would."

"Have I done something to upset you?"

"No. It was just a trying day. I have much to think on."

"Then I will see you tomorrow, darling." He kissed my cheek, blew out the candle, and, a few moments later, I heard the door to my room shut and the sound of him mounting the stairs. I got little sleep that night and what I did was filled with images of smoke and golden cords and the icy chill of the stream as I sunk down, unable to muster the strength to rise again from the dark abyss.

The next morning I wanted nothing more than to go to church. If I could not tell my husband what had transpired the day before I might, at least, find solace in confessing it to my God. As we sat, our two families occupying the entirety of the pew, I could not help but think how we must appear. Two perfect, beautiful families of wealth, smiling and speaking the prescribed words. There was no sign of flaw or discord. No hint of tragedy or strife beyond Childs pinching his little sister, which, to the outside observer must appear almost charming. And then my own family, Roger, handsome and tall, Millie so much her father in appearance, a pretty little rosebud promising a glorious bloom one day, and myself, quiet, acquiescent, well mannered. At this moment I could not help but wish the picture were reality. That there were no Nicholas Martin waiting in firelit room. That there were no spies and struggles and intrigues. That we were simply as we appeared.

My mind could not be held by the sermon, I concentrated wholly on presenting all my worries and troubles to God in the hopes He might make haste to help me. Granger was ill, Russell was gone, Tom had been made, our contact was in league with the enemy and the face of that enemy was my own shameful past. I remembered well the moment, when Darby had led me to my uncle's smoking room where Nicholas discussed with him the extermination of the British troops in Afghanistan as if they were mere anthills to be crushed underfoot without so much as a thought.

He had killed the czar under the name of Nikolai, that much we were certain of. Whether or not he had pulled the trigger was irrelevant, his fingerprints were all over the crime. Another man, a second Nikolai, was arrested for the crime. Confusion Nicholas had used to his advantage to escape into Germany. Apparently he had somehow made his way from there to New York despite James Bond being on his tail, and obviously from there to Pittsburgh.

But then, perhaps he had changed over the years as he said. He knew who I was yet had not had me shot on sight. It would have been a simple matter to then do away with Roger. That treacherous Pinkerton could have come, pretending to be the bearer of the sad news of my death and shot him. Roger, clever as he was, would be caught wholly unawares. That Evans had been an agent of Nicholas's the entire time was earthshaking. I could not help but wonder if anything he had told us were true or if they had merely been fabrications to persuade us to return home.

Russell had to be true. There was no possible way for him to know the text of the message I received in New York. Granger's sudden illness also bore the ring of truth. There was no reason to believe we would come so close to their operation. It was more likely we would have spoken to Berkman, become convinced he had worked for his own purposes, his and Emma's, and returned home. But Grimsby, himself ambitious and eager for the directorial role, his requesting our return had seemed odd even at the time, likely that had been false, designed to persuade us to return to England. We had been getting too close, then. I hadn't even realized how close we were.

Millie rested her head against my body. Unconsciously I pulled her under my arm as a hen would her chick, stroking her curls. Du Beauchene in Europe, Nicholas Martin in America, was there not a single safe harbor for my child? What grave crime had I wrought bringing her in to such a world? In that moment my lips moved in soundless prayer that God would protect my daughter. That He would carry her through even if it were not with Roger and I at her side. Would the Frick's take her in? Possibly. Certainly they would consider it. More likely my brother would claim her. He who was so afraid to have his own children might find himself tried in that manner. He and Bertha would be good parents to her. I could rest assured that while she might not know great riches, she would know great love.

I resolved that I should write my solicitor to make the changes to our will but came to the immediate realization that it would be a fortnight before he would receive it at the earliest. My meeting would be on Tuesday. Perhaps I might spare a moment with Mr. Gilfillan tomorrow, just that things would be clear. I prayer to the Lord such clarity would only be cautionary.

When we returned to the house Childs marched up to his room, small fists balled in impotent rage at having received a swat to the rear from his father for misbehaving in church when it had been his sister's fault, so said he. The challenges of being the eldest in a demanding family, I knew them well. Roger requested Mr. Frick show him the stables and carriages while I followed Mrs. Frick to put Millie down for her nap. She was in no way willing to comply and between her and Helen it was such an ordeal that Mrs. Frick swore she would require a nap as well, which I readily seconded. Mrs. Frick retired to her room and I was about to visit mine when I thought better of it. Now might be a good moment to visit the library to have a look at Mr. Frick's desk while he was occupied with Roger.

As I shifted through the papers I heard a thump thump thump above me. It sounded as though the boy were bouncing the ball so as to wake the whole household. Of course, were his father to hear it would mean another scolding. More than anything, he just wanted attention, didn't he? I sighed. How long ago had it been since I was a child with two younger siblings. I stole up the stairs to Child's bedroom and, seeing the door open a crack, I knocked lightly upon the frame. He looked up expectantly but his face fell with disappointment. "Oh, it's you." he grumbled and went back to bouncing the ball.

"Do you mind it I come in?"

"No." He made a point of looking away from me a I sat next to him on the bed.

"Might I see that ball?" He handed the large rubber ball over. "It's quite heavy," I said.

"Yeah."

"Do you know where rubber comes from?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"The Amazon."

I gave the ball back to him and glanced around the room. It was full of toy animals and adventure novels and sketches of a young boy fighting tigers and sailing on boats down rivers and riding wild looking horses next to a man with a mustache and glasses drawn as two small circles, one on either side of his nose. "Who is that man in your drawings?" I asked.

"That's Teddy Roosevelt," he said, staring at the ball he was passing from hand to hand.

"Who is Teddy Roosevelt?" I asked.

All motion stopped, he stared at me eyes, wide, mouth agape. "You don't know who Teddy Roosevelt is?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't. Who is he?"

"He's only the toughest most amazing outdoorsman ever! I have all his books." He ducked down and dug out two well worn books from between the bedside table and the mattress and proudly presented them to me. I took them carefully as the cover to the first was hanging on by mere threads.

"The Wilderness Hunter and The Winning of the West," I read aloud.

He took me by the hand and pulled me over to a child's writing desk. "See, and I have Hunting Trips of a Ranchman and Ranch Life and the Hunting-Trail, too. I haven't been able to get The Naval War of 1812 yet. Dad won't buy it for me. He says I'm not old enough and I'd only be bored and he won't waste his money on that. But I've been saving up." He opened the lid of the desk and produced a pencil box, proudly opening it to show the contents. Dozens of pennies and nickels littered the bottom of the box, as well as a few paperclips, assorted buttons, the bone of some small bird, and some stones, as well as a hand drawn badge with two crudely drawn profiles on it, though, crude as they were, I could tell he had spent a good deal of time on them trying to make them just so from all the tracing and retracing he had done. The words Boone and Crockett Club were smashed together to fit around the edge of the circle, leaving what was actually a good deal of blank space between the first word and the last.

"What is that?" I asked, pointing to the rudimentary medallion.

"That's my Boone and Crockett Club Badge," he said proudly. Then his expression faltered. "Father doesn't like it, though." I inwardly winced at the title "father", so like how I had addressed my own at his age. Formal, as though he were akin to God. He closed the lid of the box and put it back into the desk. "He says I shouldn't waste my time on such nonsense. That a real man studies business."

"Are you interested in business?"

He sat down in the chair beside the desk and took his wooden tiger from the floor, running his hands over the polished wood. "Business is boring. Father says I'll grow to understand it, but I hate it!"

"What would you rather do?"

"I want to go on a tiger hunt!"

I chuckled. "But what about after that? You can't hunt tigers forever."

"Yes I can."

"Well, tell me what other kinds of things that you like."

"You'll laugh at me."

"I promise I won't."

"Ok, but you can't tell father."

"You have my word of honor." I crossed my heart to show I was sincere.

"I like bones"

I laughed out loud.

He turned away, a pout marring his angelic features. "You promised you wouldn't laugh."

"Oh no, my dear. You mistake me. I am not laughing at you. I am laughing because I like bones as well, and I so seldom meet anyone who shares my interest I was surprised."

He regarded me sidewise. "Do you really like bones or are you just saying that?"

"I like bones enough to know that you have the humerus of a small bird in your pencil box."

"Bully! But you only saw it for a minute!"

"Well, I've gotten rather good at knowing which bones are which over the years."

"I wish I was that good at it."

"It is a skill that only wants practice. What kind of bones do you find the most interesting?"

"Animals!" he answered as though it were almost the silliest question I might have asked. "I want to dig up woolly mammoths and sabertooth tigers."

"So you really do intend to spend the rest of your life hunting tigers."

He grinned, then his face fell with his eyes. "But father calls it nonsense. He says there's no respectable living to be made in old bones."

"I'll tell you a secret, my father would have told me the same."

"Really?"

"Yes. And do you know what? He would be wrong. Paleontology is a perfectly respectable career. I daresay you would be adept at it."

"But father would be so mad! He wants me to carry on the family business!"

"There is nothing saying you have to choose one or the other right now. You may give business a proper try and find you do quite enjoy it. Or you might find you don't. Or you might find you enjoy both."

"I don't think I'll ever like business. Father's secretary, George, has tried to help me, but it's just too boring."

"Then, I suppose, your father will just have to accept your decision."

"He never will!"

"I'll admit I don't know your father as well as you do, but I know he does seem to love you."

"No, he doesn't." He looked down at his hands.

"I think you know he does. Even if he's not good at showing it. I think, if you show him that you have given the matter a great deal of thought and work, he will accept your decision."

"Do you really think so?"

"I do. Now then, why don't you tell me more about this Teddy Roosevelt character you are so fond of?"

He began talking and did not stop for almost an hour, regaling me with tales of Theodore Roosevelt, a man of distinguished valor and admirable exploits.

The following day found Roger and I at the office of Mr. Gilfillan. "Come in, come in," he said with a wave of his hand. As I entered a man stood, as Mr. Biddel had been a man of circles, this fellow was a man of squares. From his face to his hair to his form, every part of him seemed to be contained in corners, even his very mustache. "Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Chris Magee."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance," he said, warmly shaking our hands as though the motion were as natural to him as breathing.

"If you would like to have a seat?" We sat on either side of the squared gentleman as Mr. Gilfillan continued, "Mr. Magee is the boss of our local Republican party."

"Well, Bill Flinn and I," He said with a tone of practiced humility.

"I told him of your findings and he wished to speak with you."

I nodded.

"Let me cut right to the chase," he said, hands poised as though holding an invisible box before him. "Bill and I, we've talked it over, and well, we're just sick over this whole Homestead affair."

"Yes?"

"Well anyway, we'd like you to drop it," he said with a disarming smile.

"I'm sorry, did I mishear you?" I asked in disbelief.

"It was certainly mishandled, and there were things, in hindsight, Mr. Frick could have done to ensure the safety of the strikers and the Pinkertons. But what happened on that shore was an unfortunate accident."

"Just as the Morewood Massacre was an unfortunate accident?"

Magee looked as though he had been struck, even Roger appeared somewhat stunned for I had not shared this piece of information with him. "You know about that?"

"Yes. I wonder if he paid for their coffins as well before he threw them in the ground? I must say it does strike me as odd that a Republican would wish to ignore a pattern of deaths from a man with a mass grave to his name."

"Look, ma'am, I wish I could help you, I truly do. We all know that Carnegie Steel has done terrible things. But the city needs Mr. Frick. Have you seen the paper? He just loaned fifty thousand dollars to the State Board of Health to help protect the city against the cholera epidemic on behalf of Carnegie Steel. Without him and Carnegie we simply couldn't afford things like libraries or university buildings. Andrew's planning on founding something he calls the Carnegie Institute with an art gallery and a museum and theater. And that's not even considering the Mellons and the rest of their friends who might decide to take their business elsewhere. It'd be political suicide. We'd be the party who ruined Pittsburgh. Yes, we know Frick did wrong, but he didn't fire the shots."

"No, he merely gave them the guns."

Magee fell back in his seat, stymied. "The fact is," he finally said, "we're not going to charge Mr. Frick. That's already been decided."

"Yes, but we may still charge Mr. Carnegie. He is a British citizen currently residing in Scotland."

"Can you prove that he gave the orders from Scotland, though?" He was trying another tack.

"No."

His shoulders relaxed a bit. "There, you see. For all we know they could have made the arrangement before he left-"

"He gave the orders from London."

"What?!"

"On July 4th. Isn't that a special holiday for you Americans?"

"And you can prove this?"

"I can."

"Beyond a shadow of a doubt?"

"I believe so."

Magee slumped back, defeated. "Look, you say you feel Frick is the one most responsible for the events at Homestead and Morewood, right?"

"Yes."

"And you know we're not going to charge him."

"I wonder what would be required for you to charge him? Must he personally shoot a man in the street? Or would that man need to be wealthy for even such a murder to be worthy of notice?"

"Be that as it may, that's besides the point, we're not going to charge him. So if you do decide to go after Carnegie, and how I wish I could stop you, and you do manage to arrest him and put him in jail, do you know what will happen?"

"What?"

"Mr. Frick, as Andrew's partner, will become the head of Carnegie Steel." He let the point sink in. He took up his hat and coat. "I ask that you give the matter more thought. It was lovely making your acquaintance Miss M, Mr. Bond. If you find you should need anything during your stay, don't hesitate to call on me. Until then, good day to you both. Alex." He nodded toward Mr. Gilfillan and exited the office. We followed soon after, I still seething.

"What does it take for such a man to be brought to justice?" I asked when we were safely out of hearing of the office.

"It is not as though we don't have our own national sins to atone for."

"Yes, but that does not excuse open murder of your countrymen. There must be a way to punish such men. What is it? You seem preoccupied."

"You obtained that information regarding the Morewood Massacre from Nikolai, didn't you?" Roger said. "Why didn't you tell me? I don't like to be blindsided, particularly by my own wife."

"I'm sorry, there was much on my mind and I didn't think to."

He regarded me with concern. "There's something you aren't telling me. Something important. But I can't be certain what excepting that it revolves around this Nikolai character."

I caught a glance of the man Nicholas had called Reverend disappearing behind a corner. "I will tell you, but now is not the right time."

"When will be the right time?"

"Trust me to know it."

"Just answer me this: did he ask you to keep the secret, or is it your own decision?"

I wished so much to lay the truth bare before him, to reveal all its secrets in its nakedness. But I couldn't. The risk was too great. To even say so much as he was now asking would be too much of a revelation. Were I to say Nicholas asked I keep the secret he would certainly follow me to the meeting. But he knew me far to well for me to deceive him with a lie. "I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to say. You will just have to trust I know what I am doing."

Roger turned, catching my cheek in his hand. He tenderly slid it down to the tip of my chin and kissed me. "I will, for now."

"Thank you."

* * *

The following morning I rose early and prepared to meet Nicholas. As I passed the window I chanced to see, from the corner of my eye, movement. It was Mr. Frick. But what was he about so early, I wondered. I threw on my shawl and hurried down the stairs to follow.

He was walking at a brisk pace over the lightly wooded hills with their serpentine paths. I had not been over this area before. Most of our walks had led us into and about the ravine. It was strange that we had not yet attended to these tended grounds. It was then I saw, upon the rising hill, the reason why. A spray of unnaturally hewn granite and limestone jutted from the misty morning fog like the teeth of giants. Monuments in subdued grey and houses of white marble decorated in the wings of Horus and supported by his lilies populated the tops of these hills. Frick strode past the stony angels with not so much as a glance, his eyes fixed upon the highest place. I followed as closely as I dared, careful to keep myself as concealed as possible among the stones and trees, and endeavor which slowed my progress. What was he doing in a cemetery at this hour? Perhaps a meeting he did not wish any to be privy to but for the herds of deer which grazed between the stones, unbothered by our presence.

I found him at the peak of the tallest hill standing before a pair of stones, both of the same size and shape. In front of one I could see sprigs of green popping out from the loose soil. Concealing myself behind a beech tree I listened.

"Good morning, Rosebud. I awoke last night and for a moment thought you had climbed into bed with me. But when I reached over the bed was empty." I heard his breath catch. "Mama is doing well. She would have come herself, but the walk is difficult for her in this heat. She has not been feeling well lately, not since your brother was born. I hope you are taking good care of him. I know you probably like to carry him around in your arms as you used to carry Helen. I'm sure it is much easier for you with him, for he is so small, and you are such a big girl now." His voice climbed to a high pitch as he fought these words out. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes. "Childs and Helen miss you, of course. As do- As do I." At this his voice completely dissolved into sobs.

I turned away, unable to interlope one more moment on this man's grief, tears flowing from my own eyes. It could very well be Roger at Millie's grave. Or myself. How could a person raise a child, love them, embrace them for so many years, know the softness of their skin, the yielding of their plump limbs, their bright eyes lighting up when they saw you, and then to have to say goodbye to them when they are still so young. I had thought about it many times, but I had never allowed myself to feel it as I did now.

After some time had passed Frick bade his tearful farewells, promising to return again tomorrow. I walked over to the graves, I noticed there were two small patches of dead grass in front of the one he had spoken to and read upon it the name _Martha Frick_.

I brushed the tears from my eyes, steeled myself, and made my way to the ravine.


	21. Chapter 20

"Good morning, princess. You're early." Nicholas said, jumping down from his perch in a large tree. "I see you came alone."

"As you requested. What do you have for me?"

"That depends. What do you have for me?" I reached into my bag and pulled from it a loaf of bread and three apples, passing them to him. "I see you went above and beyond. As expected."

He handed me a sheaf of letters and telegrams, I flipped through them. "These are all from the month before the conflict. Where did you obtain them?"

He raised an eyebrow at me.

"The office raid." I answered my own question.

"You'll find everything you need to prove your case in there."

"Unfortunately we are unable to pursue it."

"Yes, I heard about your meeting with Boss Magee."

"You did?"

"You cannot honestly believe I am not having you watched."

"No, of course not."

He took a stone from the ground and tossed it into a place where the rainwater had pooled into a temporary pond. The stone skipped before sinking. "It makes you sick, doesn't it?"

"What does?"

"You know what Frick is, what he's done, and you can't touch him."

"It is infuriating," I allowed.

"It is beyond infuriating. I know you too well to believe fury is the extent of your feelings."

"Fine. If you must know, it is maddening. I see the man and I do have sympathy for him. But then I consider those children who have lost their fathers, wives who have lost their husbands, and I think there can be no justice in this world if a man is allowed to get away with such acts and I can see why Berkman acted as he did. But then I see his family and I fear what taking him from them would do. Is it right to take away one more father from their children?"

"There are other ways."

"What do you mean?"

"A man such as Frick can be punished without doing anyone any harm."

"I don't believe I see a way that such a thing might be done."

"I ask you, if there were a way to bring some semblance of justice against him for the massacre, without hurting any innocent people, would you consider taking it?"

"What are you proposing?"

He put his finger to his lips, grinning like a sphinx. "Shhh. It's a secret."

"How am I to consider a thing if I do not know what it is?"

"I was only asking if you were interested."

"I am, at least, curious."

"Good. Then I shall see you tomorrow, Princess." He said and darted off up the hill.

A few moments later I heard a crashing through the brush, a familiar face appeared. "Brownie!" I cried as the pup bounded up to me, hopping all about me. "Now where did you come from?"

"Brownie!" the familiar Irish trill of the housekeeper intoned. "Brownie!"

"Come on, let's bring you home," I said, grabbing hold of his collar and walking him home.

* * *

The next day was much as the first. I found Nicholas once more hiding in a tree, playing birdsongs on a tin whistle. "So, have you thought about my little proposal, Princess?" He asked from his perch amongst the branches.

"I have."

"And what is your answer?"

I produced a loaf of bread and a hunk of bacon. "I should like to hear more."

The right corner of his mouth raised in a smile. "Mina Moore, you always do manage to surprise me." He hopped down from the tree, landing much more gracefully than one would expect of his forty four years. But then, nothing but a few lines about his face would give anyone the impression of his age. Rather than marring his looks, age had accentuated them, particularly in those large brown eyes, so capable of conveying resplendent joy as easily as withering chill. But now a steely coldness lurked behind them. For all his generosity toward the Union, he was a man capable of taking a life, any life regardless of personal attachment, for his cause. I could never forget that, the scar on his cheek bore witness to it. "Walk with me," he said, offering his left arm. I took it, my hand brushing against something hard and glass on his wrist.

"At the moment we are about the business of gathering evidence."

"Evidence for what purpose?"

"To strike a blow against Frick even Magee and the papers can't ignore."

"And what would that entail?"

"That's more than I can tell you without a commitment to help."

"And let us say I were to give my aid to your cause, what would be my role?"

"You speak German, right? Gruber said you did."

"Yes."

"Fluently?"

"Would you expect any less from me?" I said in perfect low German.

"No." he answered in English. "I'd probably put you on carrying messages to the members in Deutschtown. Perhaps give a speech or two at the salon. Nothing that would put you in harm's way. I've lost you once, I have no intention of repeating that error a second time."

"You are too familiar with me. You speak as though I were not married."

"It is difficult for me to accept, and to Lord Norbert no less! It must be quite the tale how he managed to win your heart."

"It is," I spoke with not a little pride for my spy.

"Still, I have always valued your friendship and our conversations have remained some of the few my pleasurable memories of my past. I've paid twenty dollars for conversation that was far less enlightening from one far more famous. I would not want to lose something so precious as one who will speak her mind to me without flattery or fear." He stopped and turned so his brown eyes met mine. "Come, Mina, the woman I knew could never sleep on the feather mattress of a mansion while others suffered injustice. I do not believe you have changed. I can see it every time you bring more than the price of my conversation how much you wish to help the people of Homestead."

"It is not my place to interfere."

"If not now, when? If not these people, who? You have the ability. The way you speak, it stirs the hearts of the people. They can see the way your heart burns for them. It blazes like the fiery furnace. It consumes all doubts and galvanizes belief. We need you. The people of Homestead need you." He gripped my shoulders. "I need you. You give me strength. Simply having your support strengthens my resolve." I tried to look away but he gently guided my cheek back. "Mina, you must help me."

His eyes shone with sincerity. There was an honesty in his plea that loosened my tongue. "I will.

He drew back as if in surprise, pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and began writing. "There's a new construction, you'll see it when you arrive," he said as he wrote. He handed me the paper. "Meet me there in two days if you mean what you say."

"What about your hunting lodge?"

He gave a low chuckle. "That is mine alone. Only my lieutenants are allowed to know the location. You may believe they would sooner die than divulge its whereabouts. I must warn you, if you do come, there will be no turning back. Think hard on it. I will hold no ill will toward you if you decide not to come."

"I understand," I said.

"Good." He nodded in affirmation. "The I will see you in two days, my Princess."

Upon returning to Clayton I went immediately up to my husband's room, allowing not a moment as he gave an astonished "Mina!", I grabbed his walking stick and smashed the top open, digging my fingers inside and fishing out Quentin's miniature camera.

* * *

"You realize Quentin is going to be furious with you when he finds out you smashed his creation," Roger said.

"He will understand it was necessary," I said, stitching the camera beneath a large bird on my hat, concealed between a field of jewels and a canopy of feathers.

Roger strolled over to where I was sat and peered over at my work. "Your stitching has improved."

I held up the needle in warning. "Would you like to test that supposition?"

He smiled in that carefree way only possible because he did not know the true identity of the man called Nikolai. "So, may I inquire as to why you felt the need to ruin my walking stick?"

"There was something Nikolai said. It is only a hunch, but if it bears fruit..."

"Are you willing to divulge what he said to me?"

"Not yet. Do you still have Officer Wolfe's information?"

"Of course."

"Good, I will require it."

"So this mystery has something to do with New York?"

"I'm not certain. I'm not certain of anything right now. But I will be."

"Speaking in riddles, darling?"

"Once I have confirmation, I will tell you."

"Does this mean we are staying a while longer?"

"Yes. Possibly quite a while longer. I will need you to be patient with me."

"I don't like being left in the dark."

"I'm sorry, Roger, but it is essential you keep acting your part."

"And you think if I know any more than this I will somehow fail to continue to do so. You underestimate me."

"I assure you, I do not."

Roger raised his brow, piqued. "It is that serious then?"

"Yes." I watched a shade fall and remain still from the corner of my eye.

"Then I will continue as I have been. Should I inform Grimsby of our intention to remain longer."

"No! Wait... yes." I thought of Evans, how the lack of normal correspondence regarding our change in plans would appear. He would certainly report the aberration.

Roger leaned over that his lips were beside my ear and spoke in a low voice, "The communications are not to be trusted, then?"

"Neither within or without," I answered, tilting my head toward the door where the shadow of two feet showed in the slit of light between door and floor. "Certainly, inform our solicitor at once," I said more loudly. "And see if you might learn how our friend fares as well." The feet disappeared with the sound of light steps down the hall.

* * *

I arrived at the location two days later. It promised to be a large building of great height, at least two stories above its neighbors, with three grand arches decorating the front. Though it was nearing completion it still possessed some of the skeletal steel appearance of construction. Grant waved me in. "We're on the fifth floor," he said, pointing to the stairwell.

Nicholas stood in the center of the second arch, smiling. "You came." He did nothing to disguise the joy in his voice.

"I said I would." I stopped myself before adding that I was never one to go back on my word. There was no sense reminding him of the time I had, when I threw his ring to the ground. Instead I contented myself to stroll about the open expanse. The interior walls had not yet been put up. "This is an interesting meeting place you have here."

"It serves our purposes for now. We'll have to move on in a few weeks, but by then, the plan should be done."

"And what is to be my part?"

His manner changed abruptly to that of business. "Nothing more than delivering letters for the moment, though I would like you to speak at the Salon next week."

"About what in particular?"

"Justice, the rights of man, Unions, truly whatever strikes your fancy that you have a passion for. But be careful not to mention any word of violence or revolt. Suggest that it is in the hands of the right people and all we require is their support."

"Financially?"

"If they wish it, but never ask. We don't want to simply give a speech and pass a plate - they can go to church for that. What we want, more than anything, is their trust. We can't afford another incident like Berkman to occur now, while the eyes of the world are still upon us. Rally their spirits, but keep them in line. As for the deliveries, I don't need to tell you not to open them. Deliver them and leave. Do not speak, do not watch to see them open it. Simply hand them whatever it might be and go."

"Will there be anything else?"

"I may have something for you in a fortnight that will make use of some of your, shall we say, unique skills. Depending on how well you do. That will be all. Grant will hand off your first drop at 7:20 in the morning by the Kaufmann's building, just below the Statue of Liberty. Come by after you have made the deliveries."

I began to leave.

"Oh, and Mina?"

I turned, "Yes?"

The way he smiled so warmly was truly disarming. "It truly is good to see you. I'm glad you are on my side this time."

I immediately made my way to the nearest portrait studio and paid a handsome sum for use of their dark room and chemicals, under the guise of purchasing a photograph of myself, for I could see the one Nicholas had named The Reverend was watching me from the alley, appearing just as willing to shoot me as he had been on our first meeting.

It was an easy enough position to fill and I did it ably, disguising my sojourns as long walks about the neighborhoods. Often I was back well before lunch and would help Ada (as I was now accustomed to calling Mrs. Frick) with the children and a neighborhood girl, Sally, who was keen to come around and play with the girls. I found myself growing quite fond of Ada and was often able to persuade her to show me some of her favorite shops and restaurants around the area. It troubled me to think I was actively acting against her husband, who, though she had grown cold to since her infant's death, she still professed to love dearly. Childs and I indulged in evening walks with Brownie where he would endlessly indulge his interests in all things natural, occasionally picking up a bone for me to identify and reacting with amaze when I did so easily.

Nicholas was becoming a growing presence in my life. My initial wariness had begun to waiver as I watched him work and plan. I found I enjoyed speaking with him at length, as we had before, but this time without chaperone. It was an easy thing to be seduced by the purity of his ideals, the tenacity of his desire to see them realized. The charitable works he engaged in were legion. He often joke that he was the hidden Boss Magee, but for the working man alone, for he sought no recognition for himself.

But there were still things which bothered me. The explosives he had stolen from Berkman. Was it as I suspected? And if so, for what purpose? I could almost convince myself the purpose may have simply been to stage the scene at the office but prevent Berkman from doing any real harm. Berkman would have purchased the explosives regardless and might have discovered the frauds before. But I chastised myself for employing such mental gymnastics - Nichols Martin was a man content to use violence to bring down two empires by violence, why should he not be willing to employ such techniques again? I asked him several times their purpose but he only granted me Mona Lisa's smile and told me no more. It was difficult to tell whether he were doing this simply out of amusement (for he did love to tease me) or that he was unable to tell me without lying.

But as the days passed they had the added effect of distancing me further from my husband. The secrets I kept were all encompassing. And with at least one of Nicholas's spies in the house we could not even hold conversation.

I waited eagerly for the post each day, hoping for confirmation, but it was another letter which arrived the next Monday which left me stunned, for it was from Sarah. I opened it quickly, expecting the worst. I imagined they would wish me to hear it from her. I read the letter quickly. Re-reading it to make certain of what I had read. Hamburg was still under the scourge of epidemic, but Heinrich Menning, that dear man, had managed to sneak into the city to Russell's apartment and had found there the signs of a struggle and a body. But it was not that of Mr. Shaw, but of Klugman, the Sanguinem Agni member Russell had been sent to watch. Even after a week, Menning was certain of the identity. He had known Klugman many years. Tracing the path Russell might have taken out of the city and into the woods he found another body, that of Mr. Fenstermacher, floating face down in the reeds of the diebstech. Which only left The Dutch. Menning continued his search but lost their trail to the south.

Of course Sarah was certain this was proof Russell Shaw was still alive, that he had merely not made contact because he was not yet out of danger, and, protocol be damned, she was going to tell me of this development. It was enough to give me hope, though I knew The Dutch to be lethal with his weapons, that is to say, whatever he felt might be used as a weapon at the moment, though his preferred tool was the razor blade and he had quite a collection. I knew, for I had removed a number from his victims, personally.

The day of my speech arrived. When I arrived at the drop point all Grant had to say was that Nikolai wished to see me. He greeted me with his usual unassuming smile, Gruber at his side. After some small talk he began to explain the process for the meeting, what would occur and when. Finally he said, "Mr. Gruber will meet you here and escort you to the salon." He leaned forward on his makeshift desk of plywood and brick. "So, have you decided on a topic?"

"I was thinking something on the needs of man for each other. A sort of treatise on philos. I thought I might draw inspiration from the government of Germany and its overthrow. But to be certain to point out that, while they had ideas, it was their lack of cohesion in them that caused their government of the people to fail and tyranny to win out. A promotion of unity while speaking against rashness, if you will."

His smile grew broader. "Why you clever girl. It is perfect. Many of them came here from Germany as political exiles, or their parents did. I only wish I could be there to hear it. Perhaps you might give me the finer points? I've only heard of the failed revolution, but know little beyond that."

"Of course." I began to explain the history of the revolution and soon we were deeply embroiled in it, Gruber having long since left for work. The conversation grew to include all the revolutions of Europe and the effects both at home and in America. We continued the topic throughout the morning and into a Chinese restaurant on 2nd avenue. Roger was partial to Chinese dumplings, a taste he had developed in Hong Kong but that had eluded him since his return, and I was glad to finally understand why. Though this I did not mention to Nicholas for we were now discussing Ireland in earnest and the ideas coming out of there. In the end, I never did return home, sending my regrets by delivery boy that I had decided to visit the exposition and intended to remain in the city that evening. It had been years since I had felt so free to discuss these topics, and certainly never with a revolutionary. Particularly not one as well spoken as Nicholas Martin. Gruber was surprised to find us still in conversation when he came to pick me up.

"It has been a wonderful day, Princess." Nicholas said, taking both my hands in his. "I wish you good luck with your speech." He leaned in and appeared to hesitate, finally deciding on a kiss on my cheek.

Gruber was silent for the walk. The speech went as well as could be hoped. I saw Tom in the crowd with his friends from work. If looks could kill, I was not certain whether he or Gruber would have been sliced finer for how they stared at each other. I spoke to Gruber after asking what was going on, but he only muttered something about me being Nikolai's woman, and that it wasn't his place to impose, slinking off to the bar to nurse his wounded pride. I was surrounded by Germans all congratulating me for a stirring debut when a strong hand grabbed me and pulled me outside and away from the salon.

"Now what in tarnation was that!" Tom said angrily. "I don't hear a word from you in two weeks and now yer up there givin' speeches and pal'in' up to Gruber like yer old chums. We're supposed ta be partners!"

"I was able to gain the attention of Nikolai. He asked me to join his organization and I accepted."

"What? Are you crazy? Do you know what he does to people? The Monster of the Mon just struck the other day. Couldn't identify the man he was in so many pieces."

"I'm not sure he is this monster of the mon."

"Well two weeks ago you were."

"That was before I met him."

"Ah. I see how it is. He's got you all wrapped up in his spell like everyone else. How could you be so stupid?" His voice was catching harshly on the words. Strangely. The syllables emphasized. "And to not even tell me? Do you know how much danger you are in?"

"Acutely."

"You should have told me. Brought me in with you. To protect you."

"I couldn't. He knows you are a Pinkerton. He specifically requested I not."

Tom drew back, his voice returning to normal as he said, "He knows I'm a Pinkerton?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I can't tell you."

"Well you damn well better tell me. Or I'll find Gruber and make him tell me." He pulled his gun.

"You wouldn't."

"You wanna try me? I'm not lookin' to find myself on the wrong end of a bullet if I can prevent it."

I looked around. "Follow me," I said pulling him further away. "We'll need to hurry." I found an narrow alley between two warehouses and, scanning both directions, pulled him along with me.

"Now tell me-"

"Shhh" I put my finger to my lips and waited, watching the dim glow of both ends of the alley for shadows. None appeared. Evans must not have seen us leave. "It's safe."

"From what? Tell me why we couldn't do this at my apartment."

"Because that would be the first place he would look."

"And who's he, exactly?"

"Evans."

"Wait- Evans?"

"Yes. He's one of Nikolai's lieutenants. He's been feeding him information on the Pinkerton movements for months."

"Why that dirty double crosser. If he's one a' Nikolai's then wouldn't that mean he knows about-"

"Yes, James and I both. And he knows of The Poet, but not who he is."

"Wal' good, hope we can keep it that way. Don't reckon he'd take very kindly to threats. You don't want ta see him mad. I'll tell you what, there's a reason Sherman took him from Georgia to Kansas and it weren't cause he was bad at poker." He cracked his neck. "Guess ah know what ah'll be doin' tonight."

Though I knew nothing of this Sherman character there was an ominous enough tone to that I did not need to ask. "Don't kill Evans," I said.

"Why not, he's a traitor."

"That he very well may be, but if he dies Nikolai will know I told you. I need you to give me more time."

"Why should I? Why not just cut the head of the snake and be done with it?"

"Because, I have made that error before, only to find there was a more terrible snake waiting to consume the first. Give me more time and I promise, when I have my answers I shall tell you."

"Fine. But you find out anythin' you tell me straightaway, ya hear? I ain't gonna let nobody kill ya. That's my job, an I take it seriously."

"Thank you."

It was five days more before the anticipated letter from New York came. I tore it open not certain I wanted the answers contained within. If I was wrong I had wasted a good deal of time chasing a ghost. But were I right- Oh Nicholas! How I hope I was wrong about you. I braced myself as I read.

 _Dear M,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well. I did as you asked and took the photograph to the Zum Grosse salon while Miss Goldman was there. Sat right next to her and everything. I tells the barkeep I'm looking for a friend of mine and show him the picture. Says he doesn't know him. I ask Miss Goldman and you could tell she recognized him right off but she says she don't know him either. I say that's too bad. She asks what his name is and I say they call him Nikolai. She says she'll keep an eye out for him. So I finish my drink and accidentally drop the picture on the floor as I go to talk to some other people. I see Miss Goldman in the mirror and she picks up the photo and puts it in her purse. I don't know who this man, Nikolai is, but she sure seems to. If you need anything else feel free to write, or you can call the precinct in an emergency._

 _Give my best to the kid._

 _Stan Wolfe_

That was all the confirmation I needed. Nicholas had been the man at the shop who had given Emma Goldman the money, meaning he had heard of their plan and needed it to go through, even if he had to fund it himself. The explosives were not, could not, be incidental to his plot. I had to confront him. I must know his plan for the explosives.

I passed Grant on the way into the building. "You might not want to go up there right now." He warned as I strode by him.

"And why not?" I said, not even trying to conceal my fury. He followed gingerly behind me.

"Well, the boss, he's with someone right now."

"Well he'll be with me in a moment," I said, marching up the stairs.

"Suit yourself, but I don't think he'll be happy to see you." I heard Grant mutter, but I was already at the second landing.

As I approached the fourth floor I heard Nicholas's voice. "When did this happen?" he demanded.

"A few weeks ago," another man's voice cried.

"A few weeks ago? What did you tell him?"

"Nothing!" There was the sound of something impacting something soft and a shout of pain. "I swear," the other voice panted. "I didn't tell him anything."

I carefully crept further onto the floor of lain plywood. Dust sheets hung down from the ceiling, giving the appearance of walls and rooms to what was otherwise an empty floor lit by the grand window frames. Behind a sheet wall I could see Nicholas pacing back and forth, like the panther in the London Zoo, in his hands I could see two steel rods, not more than a foot and a half in length. I could see what appeared to be a man sitting on a chair but it was difficult to make out behind the slowly undulating sheets.

"You wouldn't just be saying that, would you?"

"No!"

Nicholas swung back, slamming the steel baton into the man's shoulder with a sickening crack. The man howled in pain. I knelt low, creeping along behind the curtains. A gust caused them to sway out. I could see the terrified face of the man from the mill Roger had interrogated. He was covered in cuts and bruises and lashed to the metal chair so tightly his neck, the only free part of him, besides the head connected to it, bulged forward. On a cheap wooden table nearby where a number of tools, most already bloodied. Brass knuckles, a shining straight razor, a hammer.

"Please! I didn't tell him anything!"

"See, the trouble, Hank, is I know you. I know you told him something and I need to know what that was." Nicholas shoved a balled up cloth into the man's mouth. He took the straight razor and trailed it along the width of the man's neck as the man strained back against the seat, trying vainly to avoid the blade. "The thing about razors is a good one can be sharpened so you don't even realize you've been cut. A bright red line traced the path the razor edged had traveled. He brushed the razor against the forming drops and held it up to the man's eyes. Hank's eyes bulged as he fought against the ropes, grunting loudly what would have been screams of abject terror. "Relax. I didn't cut you that deeply. Now then," he removed the cloth from Hank's mouth, "tell me what you told that man."

"I didn't tell him nothing about the plan, I swear."

"So you told him something."

"I told him I'd never tell. I didn't want to end up like that girl you made drink acid." Nicholas shoved the cloth in the man's mouth, picked up his steel batons and slammed them down on his shoulders. I heard the crack of the bone and the pop as the humeri dislocated. Another hit slammed the man's vitals below his ribcage. Then one to his ribs, shattering them. The cloth flew from Hank's mouth. "Please, no more." he begged between ragged breaths, blood from his aspiration freckling Nicholas's face.

"You have the power to end this now. Just answer my question. What else did you tell him?"

"I told him - I told him I was surprised you hadn't killed Berkman when he stayed with you."

"And why would that surprise you? I'm not a monster." Nothing in the scene before me would testify to that claim.

"Because, you thought his plan would cause trouble for us if he killed Frick."

Nicholas raised his baton and appeared as though he were going to smash Hank in the face with it. Hank flinched. But no contact was made. "So you did tell him something of the plan. That would explain why they visited Berkman again. Thank you." Nicholas took a few steps away, I could see the cool calm on his blood-flecked face. He dropped one of the steel batons onto the floor, letting it clatter on the soft wood. Hank visibly seemed to relax. Then Nicholas spun the baton in his hand, turned, and slammed it into back of the man's neck, with such force the head flew from the body and landed some yards away. He turned, and for a moment appeared startled. Then he took a handkerchief from his pocket and smiled as he rubbed it against what appeared to be a watch attached to his wrist.

"Do you like it?" he said, wiping the speckles of blood from the glass face. "Ingenious little things, aren't they? I took it off a German corporal before I took his name, as he was no longer in need of it. They certainly would not allow Nicholas Martin passage to America. Fritz Bruenig or something like that. Funny that it would be the Germans to come up with such an item for their military while we still labor with watch pockets as though war were a gentleman's sport where time was of no great import."

"You're him. The Monster of the Mon." I breathed, pistol in hand.

"At your service." His smile chilled me to the bone, though it was the most true one I had seen from him.

"You killed that man whose head they found in the river."

"He was incapable of keeping his mouth shut. Much like this one here." He pointed the remaining baton at the headless body, still fastened tightly to the chair.

"What of the girl, the one they say you forced to drink acid?"

"What was her name? Ursula, perhaps? I did not force her to do anything. She was infatuated with me, she fancied I might share her foolish feelings. But she was never anything more than a maid, and not even competent at that. All she was asked to do was remain in her position at the hotel until Mr. Burton could make the drop, and she could not even manage such a simple task. I believe my exact words to her on her firing were: Kill yourself." His face lost all expression as he said those two words. "At least she was capable of doing that."

"You're a monster."

"Now now, Miss Moore, no need to repeat yourself."

"What is the plan? Tell me or I'll shoot."

"And what good would that accomplish, other than that I would be dead?"

"That would be rather a lot of good."

"Oh Princess, you wound me. But it is not as though you have not before." He ran his finger under the scar. "I expected you would find out eventually, though I had hoped to avoid it for a while longer. But you have been useful to me, so I will allow you to leave if you swear not to speak of this to anyone."

"And why would I do that?"

"Simple. Because if I even so much as suspect that you might tell your husband or the authorities of our plans, I will have he and your daughter murdered. Before your very eyes if I can arrange it, but whatever is most expedient. As for that Pinkerton of yours, well, let him serve as your warning I am serious in what I say. Go home, Miss Moore, and do not return."

I ran without thinking as to where. To Rialto street. I had to see for myself. I heard gunfire. I took the stairs that ran along the side of the foul muddy road two at a time. Three men were lying dead outside the front. "Howdy, Mina," a voice called from the doorway. "Sorry, you missed the party." I saw The Reverend peek over the window sill in the room behind Tom, pistol leveled.

"Tom!" I cried.

Tom threw his gun arm behind his shoulder so that the gun was held upside down and fired. The Reverend fell back with a shot through the eye. "I thought I heard four. Dang these Pinkerton guns. Can't hardly shoot straight with 'em. I was aimin' for the center of his brow. Mighta been the window though. Not much good for reflectin'. Anyhow, prolly time for me ta be moseyin' along afore their buddies come for me. Or the landlady. Think I'm gonna need a place to lay low for a bit. You wanna come along?" I nodded, still panting from the run.

We traveled for sometime until we had reached what the Pittsburghers called the South Side. A seedy area of tall houses and orthodox churches, where you were just as likely to meet a nun as a cutpurse in that maze of narrow streets and back alleys. Tom tore a few planks from a boarded up doorway. "Ladies first," he said, gesturing for me to step through the hole.

The house had long been abandoned to all but the dust and mice. Tom busied himself at the fireplace where there was a miraculous pile of fresh logs and old newspaper. "The Poet set up this place in case one of us came to trouble. Even that rat Evans don't know about this place. If he sees the smoke he'll come see what's goin' on."

"Does he not trust the agency?"

"The only man he trusts is himself. And me on account of I saved his his life."

"How did that come about?" I asked, grasping for something to occupy my mind that was not Hank's head.

"I don't care ta talk about it. But, since it's you, I'll make an exception. My unit was called in ta help with some trouble at the Pine Ridge Indian reservation. There was a gathering of Lakotas there, huge group, all of them Ghost Dancers. Ya probably don't know what that is, but basically it was a dance that was supposed to make the white man leave their lands. It was pretty spooky to watch. Anyway, there was rumor that Chief Sitting Bull was among them and he was going to be arrested by the Indian police. They wanted us there to keep the whole thing from turning into another New Ulm. Well, by the time we got there things had gone south. Seems the arrest hadn't gone off as planned and one of the Indian police shot Sitting Bull and killed him. That set the Lakota's ta dancing in this place they called Wounded Knee. Our orders were ta get their guns, keep them from bein' able to do more than just dance. A lotta the men were scared. Shaking. They kept tellin' stories about the New Ulm massacre. How one of them saw a man cut to ribbons and another was tellin' about how the braves took a pregnant woman, ripped her open, and nailed the baby to a tree. Jest horrible stuff. By the time we was standin' at the edge of the holler where they was camped half the men was seein' guns and tomahawks that weren't even there. Thinkin' any moment we'd hear a war cry and they'd be upon us with arrows and axes and guns, tearin' our scalps off, cutting our... you know... our ears off."

He lit a cigarette and took a puff. "Ya want one? You look like you've had a day of it."

"No, thank you. Do go on."

"Well, I saw Frank and he was serving as an interpreter, tryin' ta get them ta give up their guns. And ya know, some of 'em did, some said they didn't have any. Found a bunch no one would claim even when they were in their bags. But in another part of the holler there was some sort of scuffle. One of the Indians didn't want to give up his gun. It turned into a fight. Then there was a shot, and then all the guns they said they didn't have suddenly came out and it was a firefight. They was jest tryin' ta defend themselves, I think. I mean yeah it was men, but it were women and children too. And they all got shot jest the same. I saw one of the braves take aim at Frank, he was in the thick of it ya see, fighting off a buncha them. Well, I did what I had to. He looked up where the bullet came from an saw it was me. Picked off a few others so he could get free of it. Look, I ain't prouda what we done. It warn't a fair fight. But that's what happened an I can't change what I did anymore'n anyone else. But enough of that. It sounds like you've gotten yourself into a fair pickle." He took another drag of his cigarette. "Said something to upset the boss?"

"Something like that. I walked in on him murdering a man."

"Sounds like a party." He took a drag of his cigarette. I noticed the glint of the sun off his wrist. Looking closer I saw it was a watch, attached by a leather band to his wrist. I had not noticed it before. To be more true I had not even thought to expect such a thing to look for it.

My hand hovered over my pistol, still tucked neatly in my belt. "Your watch. Only members of the German military are issued wrist watches. You are him. You're Georg Mueller."

His face lost all expression, morphing instantly from jovial to impassive. "And you killed my brother, _Fraulein_."


End file.
